


Deliver The World With Your Scarlet Opinions

by Lynchy8



Series: The Life and Times of Bahorel and Feuilly [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Accidents, Angst, Arguing, Bahorel doesn't pine either, Bahorel is awkward at flirting, Coming Out, Feuilly does not pine, HIV talk, Jehan in the bath, M/M, On a train, Quite chipper, Rating for later chapters, Same verse as Life & Times of Enjolras and Grantaire, Smut, This is going to be long, Well maybe a little, at all, blink-and-you'll-miss-it mentions of R, crossover fic, drunken blowjobs in bathrooms, drunken fumbles, e/R if you squint, hint of abuse, holidays to france, injuries, lots of swearing because Bahorel and Feuilly, not much, semi public sex, some homophobic behaviour, the boys are at uni, there may be trouble ahead, there will be more later, with Feuilly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-29 19:11:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 107,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Bahorel and Feuilly, how they went from colleagues to best mates and beyond.</p><p>It is set in the same Verse as Life and Times of Enjolras and Grantaire. From chapter 4 onwards it looks at the five years between "Indifference Loved" and "Unhooking the Stars".</p><p>There will (eventually) be lots of lovely overlap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crossroads

**Author's Note:**

> It's set in the same verse as Life and Times of Enjolras and Grantaire, but from a different angle. Think "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead".

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crossroads, noun  
> a. the place where two roads intersect  
> b. a point at which a vital decision must be made

The rain hadn’t quite stopped, but that didn’t prevent him from running down the field, away from the hated building, as fast as he could. He had no coat, just a hooded sweater. His jeans and trainers quickly became saturated as he made his way through the soaked grass.

As he reached the chain-link fence, he cast an eye behind him to make sure he was not being followed, before he hauled himself up. He was short and skinny for his age so it took two goes. He paused briefly at the top before letting go, staggering into the ground below. Then he was running again.

He told himself that this time he wouldn’t stop. This time he would find the strength to keep going. He won’t ever go back.

He had been at St Margaret’s for four years and this was his ninth escape attempt. He was usually picked up after a few days by the police after being reported by a well-meaning member of the public. The longest time he had spent free had been two weeks during which time he had slept under canal bridges and begged for change to buy chips. It had been summer then. It was Autumn now. He didn’t care, though. He just ran.

There didn’t appear to be anyone in the allotments that day and he darted easily between the plots. The rain got heavier which was when he spotted a welcome shed, a shed with only a bolt and no padlock. Quickly, he changed course, struggling briefly with the rusty bolt before hurling himself inside.

Breathing harshly, he crouched down under the work bench amongst the discarded flower pots and bean poles, allowing the treacherous tears to overcome him.

Sheds made him feel safe. If he closed his eyes and thought really hard he could remember his Dad’s shed. He remembered his hands, the way they worked the vice on the workbench. He remembered being permitted to watch those hands working steadily while he sat quietly on the floor. He remembered that unique smell, the way the light glinted off the rows of tins on the shelves. He could remember his father’s tool kit. For a moment, he could forget that he was in someone else’s shed.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

His eyes snapped open. The shed door was ajar, filled with a great bear of a man. He shrank back, trying to crawl further under the workbench, but the man reached forward easily, grasping him by the sweater and pulling him forward.

“There’s nothing to steal in here!” the man shouted into his face. He closed his eyes, waiting for the blow, but the man seemed to pause. He carefully opened one eye to see why he hadn’t been struck yet. The man was staring at him in a way he didn’t understand. Then he was released. His unsteady legs gave way beneath him and he ended up back on the shed floor.

“Please, Mister, I wasn’t stealing,” he implored. The man seemed to shrink away from him.

“What were you doing then?” The man’s voice was quieter now, more cautious. From the light through the shed door, he could make out the grey hair, the wrinkles round the eyes, the old pair of slippers on the man’s feet.

“Just sittin’.”

“Go sit in your own shed,” came the gruff reply.

“Ha’nt got one,” he muttered. “Ain’t got nothin’ but me own name.” 

The man bent down to look at him, frowning.

“And what might that be?” The voice was still quite rough but with gentler edges. He eyed the man with distrust, the way he did all adults.

“Feuilly,” he offered, eventually.

“Feuilly,” the man repeated. “Doesn’t your dad have a shed for you to sit in? Or are you playing some sort of game?” Feuilly pouted, feeling an ache inside.

“Dad’s in the ground with Mum,” he muttered, his eyes roving round the shed, not wanting to look at the man now. He waited, offering no further explanation.

“So you’re from the House over the back?” Feuilly shrugged. He was caught now. This man would take him back. He knew it was futile. He always ended up back there.

Feuilly could not appreciate how he looked to the man right now. He was soaking wet, his pale freckly skin contrasting sharply with the rusty red of his hair. His faded grey sweater and jeans clung to him, making him look even thinner than usual. The bruise on his cheek stood out more than anything else. 

“How old are you?” The man asked at last.

“Nearly ten.” Feuilly was confused by the question. How did his age matter? The man straightened up, sucking his teeth.

“Right,” he said at last. “As you’re here, you may as well make yourself useful.” 

Feuilly spent the afternoon helping the man in his allotment. He was shown how to pull weeds with a hoe, how to turn over soil with a fork so it could breathe. It was his job to transfer the weeds into a wheelbarrow before taking them to the compost.

At the end of the day he was hot despite the autumnal weather and he was covered in mud and blisters. But he felt warm inside. He felt calm and at peace for the first time in a long time. 

In the late afternoon, the man took him back to St Margaret’s and even put a good word in for him to the Matron. 

To Feuilly’s intense surprise he was allowed to return to the allotment every Sunday to help out with the clearing the weeds and setting up the bean poles. The man, Arthur, even allowed him a small area of his own to plant things. That first year he grew onions. He prepared the soil, planted the bulbs and waited, the anticipation increasing each week as the first small green shoots appeared, and got bigger and bigger, until the stalks swelled and bent.

Arthur taught him the patience of a gardener, as well as the joy of muttering to your charges, encouraging them out of the ground.

The second year he grew a mixture of chillis and peppers. He kept them as seedlings on the windowsill beside his bed, caring for them, coaxing them and then transferring them to the allotment once they were strong enough. 

Arthur taught him about the seasons, about the importance of the rain as well as the sun. He taught him about how each job required a tool and each tool had a job.

Just after he turned twelve, Feuilly was moved to a foster family in a new town. He didn’t even get the chance to talk to Arthur, to tell him he was leaving, to thank him properly. But he never forgot. The seed had taken hold. Feuilly was growing into a gardener.

+

Bahorel heard his mother before he saw her. From his position against the wall outside the Head Teacher’s office, he heard a grumbling of clothes and a clacking of court shoes. Eventually she swung round the corner into view. She never looked angry, only ever disappointed, to see her son in his usual spot.

The Head Teacher appeared. He welcomed her in smiling in that sympathetic way that he had, before turning his serious face on the boy against the wall, jerking his head to indicate that Bahorel should join them.

Admittedly, it was the third time that week he had found himself outside the Head Teacher’s door but this time it wasn’t even his fault. If Mark hadn’t been mouthing off, saying Bahorel was too stupid to be even the donkey in the nativity, then Bahorel wouldn’t have needed to punch him in the face. 

In his first year at this school Bahorel’s grades had been excellent. He had flourished in the school environment, finishing his reading books before everyone else and scoring really highly in his tests. All the teachers had complimented his parents for having a singularly intelligent child. While Bahorel hadn’t necessarily understood what that meant, he knew that it had made his mother happy. Unfortunately, it had brought some unwelcome attention from the less academically gifted members of the class and earned him the hated title of class brainiac. His mother may have been happy but Bahorel couldn’t have been any more miserable.

In his second year he made more of an effort to fit in. He kept his hand down in class and deliberately gave the wrong answer when directly called upon by his teacher. He went to all this effort because he didn’t want to stick out anymore. It was bad enough that, at the age of seven, he was already well over four feet tall. He didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself. He was relieved when, at the end of the year, his report was no longer glowing with compliments and the other boys started to leave him alone.

In his third year he began to act out in class in an attempt to make people laugh, to get people to like him. For a while it seemed to work. The boys started to let him hang around with them, inviting him to join in their games of football at playtime. They were fickle friendships though, hanging from a thread with none of the usual camaraderie that went with earnest childhood friendships. The other boys kept him at arm’s length, the memories from the first year never fully fading, while he never let anyone get close to him as he was far too terrified that they would see the intelligence within.

Now he was a few weeks away from his tenth birthday and approaching a terrifying five feet in height, towering above everyone else in his year. His defence mechanism of pretending to be stupid was no longer working as the same boys who had made fun of him for being bright were now plaguing him for being thick. He didn’t understand them. What did he have to do to fit in? 

Bahorel began to take his frustration out on anyone who was careless enough to poke at him. Today he had finally snapped, a cloud of red mist descending at the mention of him being stupid. He had flown at the boy, almost breaking the other kid’s nose. It had taken two teachers to pull him off. Now in the Head Teacher’s office, he had no regrets. 

The Head Teacher sighed, shaking his head.

“The most disappointing thing about this situation is that your son is actually very bright, if only he applied himself.” To emphasise the point, he waved his hands up and down in the air at each word. Bahorel shot a look at his mother who was listening with rapturous attention.

“If Bahorel could channel his… enthusiasm in a more constructive manner, he could potentially do very well for himself.” Here, the Head Teacher fixed a piercing gaze upon Bahorel’s mother, aware that he held a captive audience. “He could be a solicitor or a politician.”

Bahorel had never forgiven that man for putting the idea into his mother’s head.

+

Garden centres weren’t really Bahorel’s place of choice but a job was a job and if it kept his mother off his back then it would do for now. Clutching the unattractive green apron in one hand, he allowed the manager to steer him through the store.

“I’ll pair you up with Feuilly today. He’ll show you the ropes.”

Bahorel regarded the lanky, ginger teenager in front of him with an edge of doubt. He wasn’t entirely sure how many ropes there were to be shown. It was only a Saturday job. Surely all he needed to do was to turn up on time and sell grow bags and flower pots to people. How hard could it be?

The manager, Geoff, introduced them both to each other. Bahorel didn’t like the way the other boy looked him over, as though sizing him up. At six foot six inches, he was used to towering over most people. This kid barely made it past five foot seven, by his estimate, yet there was something very still about him, an underlying strength and aggression. Bahorel sniffed the air as though sensing a conflict. The manager, apparently not sensing any such thing, moved off to another part of the garden centre, leaving the two boys alone. 

He was surprised when Feuilly offered him a hand but he took it nonetheless, not wanting to start off on the wrong foot.

Feuilly looked up at the guy in front of him. He wasn’t good with tall people. It made him think of all those times as a kid he’d had his arms held behind his back while someone punched him in the gut. However, there was something different in the way this one stood, almost uncomfortable in his own skin. He decided to give him a chance, test the lie of the land before passing judgement.

“So, did Geoff tell you about what you’ll be doing?” he asked. Bahorel shrugged.

“Watering plants, cashier duty, stock check,” he reeled off. Feuilly nodded, stroking his chin in consideration. He jerked his head to indicate that Bahorel should follow him through the double doors to the outdoor nursery area. He gestured to the rows and rows of plants spread out before them.

“We water them regularly. Keep an eye out for any moved or damaged stock. Also need to make a note of any displays that need restocking.”

Bahorel felt like he should be taking notes as Feuilly led him round the centre, explaining the peculiar runnings of the place. He warned Bahorel that if anyone asked about the water features then he should refer them to Brian because Brian got funny about anyone else advising about water features. Similarly, they weren’t to approach the aquatics building because that was run by Steph and Jed.

They moved over to the nursery area. Feuilly was usually responsible for the nursery at weekends when he and anyone who had been put on the rota were in charge of preparing the ground for planting stock, tending to any shrubs and pruning the trees. 

Feuilly took him into the larger glass house, showing him where the senior staff pricked-out the young plants to transfer them to larger pots, took cuttings and grafted plants onto those with good root stock. Bahorel would start with general weeding and clearing as well as the basic upkeep of the greenhouses. He indicated the pile of brooms off to the side and Bahorel nodded, following him out of the glass house and back into the general centre.

“That’s about it,” Feuilly finished the tour. There was a moment of silence.

“So, when you’re not watering plants, what do you do?” Bahorel tried to start what he hoped was a fairly neutral conversation. Feuilly pulled a face, scratching the side of his head.

“This is pretty much it. I’ve been volunteering here since I was fourteen. They gave me a job when I got my National Insurance Number.”

“But surely you must do something else?” Bahorel pressed, slightly incredulous that anyone could spend that amount of time around plants. “Don’t you go to college or something?” Feuilly shrugged.

“The Centre is supporting me through my General Certificate in Horticulture. Does that count?”

“Is that what you want to be, then? A horticulturalist?” He raised a sceptical eyebrow.

Feuilly folded his arms, trying to work out whether the new guy was being funny or not. He knew that this Bahorel didn’t know anything about him, that he didn’t know how difficult it was for people like him to successfully negotiate their way out of the system with any qualifications at all, never mind a career or sense of direction. He didn’t know what it was like to move, not just houses but families, every year or so.

Since he was twelve he had lived with five different families. The longest he had spent in one place had been the year with the foster parents who had introduced him to the owners of the Garden Centre. Just before he turned seventeen he had been moved to a Residential Placement building, a house with six other teenagers with a variety of issues and mental health problems. 

It was supposed to “prepare” him for leaving care but it just made his life a living nightmare. His room had been broken into three times so now he kept anything important in his locker at work. He wanted to get his qualification so he could apply for an apprenticeship and get the hell out of this life he had almost been condemned to. He looked at the other kids in his building and knew that their sad stories could so easily have been his own.

When Feuilly didn’t answer, Bahorel decided to share some information of his own, hoping it might break the ice a little. He wasn’t sure why, but he liked his new colleague. There was something straight forward about him that he responded to.

“I’m doing A Levels at the moment,” he said, trying to sound casual. Feuilly made a non-committal noise, a small invitation to continue.

“Yeah, Politics, History, English and Sociology,” he reeled off.

“And what are you planning on doing with all those shiny qualifications?” Feuilly inquired, a challenging undertone to his voice that Bahorel didn’t understand.

“My mother wants me to be a solicitor,” he replied, pouting slightly. “She’s got it into her head that it’s something I’ll be good at. Personally I couldn’t give a fuck –“ he stopped, realising that he probably shouldn’t swear in the work place. Feuilly rolled his eyes.

“That sounds awful,” his voice dripped with sarcasm. “Must be so hard to have a supportive parent who wants you to do well in life.”

“Hey!” Bahorel snapped, eyes darkening and taking a step towards the shorter man.

“Look, education is a gift not a burden, so don’t bitch to me about how hard it is for you because I’m not interested,” Feuilly pulled himself to his full height and Bahorel found himself recoiling slightly at his fierceness.

“Don’t you judge me, you don’t know anything about me,” he retaliated, wondering where this hostility was coming from. Feuilly’s nostrils flared as he fought to control his temper.

“Just come in, do you damn job, and we’ll be just fine.” With that, Feuilly walked off, leaving Bahorel wondering what the hell was his problem.

+

Over the next three weeks, Bahorel learnt a lot about Feuilly without the guy saying a single word to him. He learnt that Feuilly threw himself into his work with abandon and that he was bloody good at it. He learnt that there were quite a few customers who sought the guy out specifically to ask his advice and that the look on Feuilly’s face when he was waxing lyrical about a particular species of plant was almost magic to behold.

He could see that Feuilly was better at dealing with plants than people and that he outright resented having to work the tills when he could be out on the shop floor. 

Bahorel wasn’t sure that he liked Geoff. The manager was inherently lazy, disappearing for long periods of time and never responding to calls for his presence at the cash desk. This wasn’t too much of an issue as Feuilly knew all the override codes for returns and refunds.

On the few occasions that he did see the man, he had clapped Bahorel on the back, asking him jovially how his studies were going. It made Bahorel’s skin crawl. He didn’t like insincerity and Geoff reeked of it. He saw how he ignored Feuilly most of the time and deliberately put him on the tills, saying it was character building.

On the fourth week, Bahorel found himself scheduled to work alone in the nursery, a decision he felt verged on madness. He was ridiculously out of his depth. Feuilly was red faced and furious behind the tills.

As soon as Geoff’s back was turned, Bahorel headed over to the cash desk.

“Want to swap?” he asked. Feuilly frowned at him.

“Look, it’s obvious to anyone with half a brain that you’re better off out there on the shop floor. Personally I don’t understand the first thing about plants but if that’s your thing then that’s cool. Let’s swap.” After a moment, Feuilly nodded.

They almost got away with it, except that Geoff came down thirty minutes before closing and found Bahorel cashing up instead of the redhead he was looking for. The pair of them got hauled into the office.

“Just because you’ve been here for how many ever years, doesn’t mean you get to pick and choose where you work,” Geoff was shouting so loudly Bahorel was certain the whole store could hear them.

“I set the rotas. I decide who gets to work in the nursery and who works the tills. Don’t think just because he’s new you can manipulate him to get your own way.” Bahorel decided that was more than enough.

“Hey, it was my fault,” he interrupted, unconsciously stepping in front of Feuilly as though to deflect the words.

“I’m not confident enough to work the shop floor by myself yet. I asked Feuilly to swap because I didn’t want to disturb you as you’re obviously very busy.” Geoff was silent as he tried to work out if Bahorel was taking the piss or not. Bahorel maintained steady eye contact, leaving the atmosphere deliberately ambiguous.

They got written up, but it did have one unexpected outcome. At the end of the shift he and Feuilly walked to the bus stop together, the silence no longer hostile.

“You’ve probably worked this out by now but Geoff doesn’t like me,” Feuilly advised him. Bahorel shrugged.

“Geoff can fuck himself.” Feuilly snorted with laughter. 

“Seriously, what kind of dickhead puts me in charge of a nursery? I can’t even keep a cactus alive.”

“Did you put that on your application form?” Feuilly grinned at him. Bahorel hadn’t seen him smile before. He was a good look on him.

He turned to Feuilly, holding out his hand in a reconciliatory gesture. Feuilly considered it for a moment before taking it. An alliance was formed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel and Feuilly are both nine years old when we first meet them, then it skips ahead to when they're just seventeen, in case that wasn't very clear.


	2. Where We Stand and on Whom We Count

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "After five months working together, their corners were beginning to rub off on each other."

_June_

Feuilly had to admit that working with Bahorel was far more fun than working alone. Despite his initial misgivings, Bahorel had proved to be a decent colleague. He generally turned up on time, was more than happy to pull his weight and by and large tried his best.

Ok, the guy couldn’t tell the difference between watering and drowning a plant, but he was a fast learner. He only needed to be told once that certain plants should be misted rather than soaked. He had a quick sense of humour and a loud laugh which could be heard often throughout the garden centre. He also proved to be more than a match for Geoff, taking most of his shit with excellent grace including the time he was issued with a five litre pink watering can.

“Aww, for me? And hot damn it’s my favourite colour too,” he had winked and cooed in response, making Geoff flush while Feuilly smirked.

Unsurprisingly he got called on a fair bit to shift the 200kg urns, the planters, fence panels, bronze buddhas and anything else the customers required moving from one side of the Centre to the other and then out to the car park. The same customers who came to Feuilly for advice about soil types now sought out “that nice strong young man” for the heavy lifting. Bahorel tried not to be offended.

“So, why doesn’t Geoff like you?” Bahorel had asked over one of their shared breaks, offering Feuilly a smoke while they lounged against the wall out the back. Feuilly accepted the cigarette and waited for the lighter.

“He thinks I lower the tone of the place,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders. He had long ago given up worrying what people thought about him. Bahorel had pulled a face.

“In what way?” Feuilly scrunched up his mouth, not sure if he was ready to talk about himself just yet, but Bahorel seemed nice enough and his social worker was always telling him to give people a chance so he took a deep breath.

“Probably because I grew up in care,” he said, scuffing his foot and trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

“Oh right,” Bahorel sounded more confused than anything. There was a bit of an awkward pause. “Sorry, what’s that got to do with anything?” Feuilly grinned. He liked Bahorel. He liked Bahorel a lot.

Feuilly understood Bahorel a bit better now as well. A couple of after-shift drinks had established a firm friendship between the two. He recognised how bright the guy was and how he struggled with it. On quite a few occasions Feuilly had found Bahorel in the staffroom, brow furrowed as he made notes from a text book. 

He appreciated the genuine straight-forwardness that shone through his personality. He even forgave him a little for moaning about his college work. He knew enough now that Bahorel hadn’t chosen this path that he found himself upon. At least Feuilly was doing something he was passionate about. Bahorel had absolutely no passion for studying Law but it seemed to make his parents happy so what else could he do? It wasn’t as if he had any career ideas of his own.

+

_July_

Bahorel hadn’t expected to enjoy his work at all. He had expected to turn up, do his job and go home and then get paid every month. At no point had he even considered that he might look forward to it. 

He liked the smell of the place, the almost imperceptible tang to the air, a combination of weed killer, grow bags and grass. The customers were all generally in a good mood, apart from the hideously pretentious ones who were there for the wind chimes and the orchids.

He worked Saturdays, Sundays and Thursday afternoons, usually in tandem with Feuilly. On the days when Feuilly was off or had been posted elsewhere, the shift went slower. One day, finding that he had been placed on the hidden til that nobody ever used behind the bird feeders, he spent the entire shift thinking up false staff announcements for Feuilly to respond to. Feuilly promised to murder him after the third one but it had been worth it to see the skinny redhead dashing about.

Perhaps the most unexpected thing of all had been Feuilly. The man had a hundred different expressions, at least sixty of which involved frowning in concentration, while only about ten were variations on smirking and grinning. Best (or was it worst) of all, he only had one smile and it was a rare creature indeed.

The guy was simultaneously casual and self-contained, serious and flippant, and boy could he swear. It had taken a while to break down the barriers but the more he learnt the more he understood why those barriers were there in the first place. Now the pair of them were a force to be reckoned with.

Feuilly brought Bahorel coffee on the various mornings-after-the-nights-before when he had felt like just staying in bed to sleep off his hangover. He always insisted on paying back any borrowed cigarettes. Meanwhile Bahorel had taken to leaving his unwanted supermarket coupons in Feuilly’s locker and was more than happy to take over till duty when Feuilly had been up all night cramming for one of his horticulture exams so the guy could curl up in the smaller greenhouse for a quick nap. Where there was one, the other was never far behind.

After five months working together, their corners were beginning to rub off on each other.

+

_August_

“My gym has got another Bring a Friend for Free day next week if you’re up for it?” Bahorel slammed his locker shut, reaching for the green apron. Feuilly added two sugars to both coffees before sliding the mug over to Bahorel.

“Don’t you think they’re going to notice if you keep bringing the same friend every month?” he asked, slurping his coffee messily, frowning at the hideous own brand instant Geoff had brought in place of their usual Nescafe Azera. Bahorel snorted.

“I made sure to read the Terms and Conditions. Nothing in there says I can’t.” Feuilly shrugged, opting to pour the brown mud down the sink instead of poison his palate any further.

“We could work on your feet placement.” Bahorel persevered. Feuilly cracked a grin. 

He’d never had a mate like Bahorel before. In his experience, people were only friends when they wanted something and as he had never had anything to give his list of friends had been pretty thin on the ground. That and he’d never lived anywhere long enough to forge the true bonds of friendship with anyone his own age.

Not only did Bahorel not actually seem to want anything from him apart from the pleasure of his company, he seemed only too happy to share what he did have, something that Feuilly found unnerving. However, after six months of waiting for Bahorel to get bored or crack or whatever he was waiting the man to do, he’d had little choice but to accept that maybe, just maybe, Bahorel was just as happy to have a partner in crime as he was.

+

_September_

“Why is Geoff smiling?”

Feuilly looked up to where Bahorel was indicating, accepting the already lit cigarette from his friend’s fingers. Through the doors of the Centre they could see their manager watching them, a pleasant smile distorting his features. It was unsettling.

“That can’t mean anything good,” he agreed, exhaling into the late September air. Their shift didn’t start for another fifteen minutes so they were both enjoying a last few moments of peace and quiet before heading inside.

As they entered the garden centre, Geoff leant out of his office and called Bahorel through.

“Not you!” he snapped, as Feuilly moved to follow, before flashing another suspicious smile at Bahorel. Neither one looked particularly happy about the arrangement but it looked as though they had little choice in the matter. Feuilly shrugged his shoulders and went towards the staffroom.

He ran inside to grab his apron and tore back onto the shop floor, grabbing a broom so he could appear to be sweeping up, while instead he listened out for any telltale signs that Bahorel was in the middle of a row. He couldn’t hear any shouting so surely that was a good sign, however the knot in his stomach told him otherwise.

He cast a quick glance at the clock on the wall. Bahorel had been in there for at least ten minutes. Feuilly racked his brains, trying to think of anything they had done recently that could possible result in Bahorel being pulled into the office and for Geoff to look so happy about it.

In the past couple of months they had both been written up any number of times for alleged insubordination but most of those had been thrown out when the owner had reviewed them. Apparently there had been nothing in the rule book about swapping tasks as long as both tasks got done and the customer experience was not affected.

Bahorel had a habit of over-using the garden centre intercom for fake staff announcements but then everyone did that. If Feuilly had £1 for every time Jed had announced a ‘Code Whiskey Tango Foxtrot’ in aquatics then he wouldn’t even need this job.

Sure, Bahorel had been hungover on a Saturday morning more than once but had never actually turned up drunk. And surely he couldn’t get into trouble for coming to work with a black eye; as long as that black eye was gained off the premises then it really shouldn’t be an issue.

Finally the door to the office opened and Bahorel stormed out, his face as red as a tomato with the effort of keeping his inner volcano in check. Feuilly swore internally, stashing the broom and following his mate through the store and out the back.

Bahorel was kicking a wall when he got out there, cursing under his breath. Feuilly stood, leaning against the door to stop anyone else coming through it.

“Did you get fired?” He asked quietly.

“No I didn’t get fucking fired!” Bahorel snapped, raising his arm as if to punch the wall, but just as Feuilly was about to intervene, he dropped his arm, huffing in frustration. He patted down his pockets, looking for his cigarettes. Wordlessly he lit one and passed it to Feuilly before lighting another. He took a deep breath, the nicotine doing its work.

“We’re starting the Christmas display set up next week,” he muttered bitterly. Feuilly shrugged. They worked in retail; Christmas always came obscenely early. He failed to see the connection between tinsel and fairylights and the angry friend in front of him.

“They want me to be Father Christmas.”

Feuilly tried, he really tried not to laugh, but the thought of Bahorel in a red santa suit and fake beard surrounded by children was almost too much. He raised his hand to his mouth, trying to pass off the action as the result of shock rather than mirth.

“Apparently it’s in my contract under ‘any other tasks required by the management’ - the bastard.” Bahorel spat on the ground, evidently still furious. He looked up, eyes flashing as a snort finally escaped Feuilly’s lips, his shoulders shaking hard as he fought to contain himself. Bahorel gave him an ugly look.

“Yeah laugh while you can,” he pouted, the anger being replaced by sulkiness. “I wouldn’t laugh too hard, sunshine, guess who is going to be my elf?” Feuilly froze.

“No fucking way.” He said at last. That wasn’t even funny. Bahorel had better be making some kind of weird joke as a coping mechanism because there was no way on this planet...

“Yes fucking way,” he was grinning now and deep down Feuilly knew he deserved it.

“You and me; Father Christmas and his little elf until 24th December.” He threw down his spent cigarette and crushed it with the heel of his boot.

“Fuckers.”

+

_November_

Bahorel’s hands were shaking as he poured out the coffee in the staffroom. The Christmas CD (side 1) had gone round three times now which meant it was lunchtime. If that guy from Wizzard was so fucking intent on it being Christmas every day he could come and swap jobs with Bahorel for a week and see how he fared.

The kids were horrific. Ok, not all of them. Some of them were really sweet. They looked up at him with big eyes filled with wonder, totally overwhelmed at meeting the Main Man, even if he was a bit darker in skin tone than their parents were expecting. They said please and thank you and whispered their deepest desires into his ear, most of them wanting things like ponies or lego bricks or a trip to Disneyland. One kid had nearly reduced Bahorel to tears when he’d whispered that he wanted his Dad to come back to live with them again. He’d needed a five minute smoke break after that.

Some of the kids were ok. They were perhaps a touch bored, or demanding or whiny but not necessarily rude. They wanted the latest gadget or gizmo on the market, the Toy To Have that Christmas, most of which Bahorel had never heard of. He laughed along and wished them a Merry Christmas, even though it wasn’t yet December, and passed them on to Feuilly who was in charge of handing out the carefully wrapped up ‘gifts’.

Some of the kids were the worst kind of hellions Bahorel had ever had the misfortune to be stuck in the same room with. They were obnoxious, sneering and of the general opinion that knowing he wasn’t the real Father Christmas somehow made them superior, like they had worked out the great secret to life.

The very worst ones were the ones that cried. What on earth could he do with a crying child apart from let it cry?

“Hey,” Feuilly appeared through the staffroom door, the same pale, haunted expression on his features that Bahorel could feel on his own. 

“Tell me there’s proper coffee in here,” he said, moving across the room to the kitchen area. Bahorel flopped down in one of the chairs wordlessly. He wasn’t sure how he could keep this up for another month.

“So?” Feuilly looked at him expectantly.

“So what?” he finally responded. Feuilly rolled his eyes.

“So, have you heard yet? About your Uni application?” Oh, that. Bahorel had been trying to keep a low profile. He knew it was a bit of a sore topic with them at the moment and he was surprised that Feuilly had brought it up. He didn’t really want another row.

“Yeah. I got in. It’s a conditional offer, but as long as I get my head down and pass my exams I’ll be going to London next September.”

Feuilly’s expression didn’t change, he just looked at his friend. Bahorel wondered what the guy was thinking.

Feuilly was thinking a lot. He was thinking how unhappy Bahorel seemed at the prospect of going to University when so many people would love the opportunity but couldn’t afford it. He was thinking how he wished he could go to Uni but would never have the time, the money or the grades. He was thinking how lonely it would be without Bahorel around. He swallowed.

“Well, I think it’ll be good for you. Good to get out of here, get a different perspective on life,” he said at last. He knew Bahorel didn’t really want to study Law but at least it was a career and a chance to get out of the suburbs, a chance to do something with your life. Maybe at Uni he would work out what he actually did want to do. He could only wish his friend the best.

“We best get back out there, Santa,” he said, bracingly, ignoring Bahorel’s glare. He patted the guy on the back, trying not to think about the extra couple of seconds his hand rested against Bahorel’s shoulder muscles before they both went back out to face the hordes of Christmas shoppers.

+

_December_

Feuilly and Bahorel sat in the bar, brazening out the funny looks they were getting. It was Christmas Eve; you’d have thought no one had ever seen a Santa and his elf getting blitzed in a pub before.

“Cheers!” Bahorel clinked his fourth beer into Feuilly’s before drinking most of it in one go. “Here’s to no more Christmas songs for at least another six months!” Feuilly could raise his glass to that for sure.

“Did you hear? Geoff is leaving.” Feuilly smiled as Bahorel drunkenly raised his glass again for another round of ‘cheers!’

“I’ll drink to that!” he crowed. “Miserable bastard.” They sat in silence for a bit.

“They want me to go full time, to replace him.” Feuilly said quietly, looking pointedly at his pint. When Bahorel didn’t immediately reply he cautiously raised his eyes. Bahorel looked troubled.

“But what about your hortimacultural thing?” he frowned, perplexed, the alcohol making it difficult to negotiate the long words. Feuilly couldn’t help but smile in response, just for a moment, before he shrugged. He needed the money and it was a good steady job. Maybe he could put the horticulture on hold for now. 

Bahorel suddenly moved, lurching towards him and Feuilly was surprised to find himself being dragged into a bone-crushing hug.

“You,” he said quite loudly into Feuilly’s ear, “should not do that. No. I won’t allow it.” Feuilly closed his eyes, hyperaware of the Bahorel’s warm arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, the weight of his head resting on his shoulder. Then it was gone as Bahorel leaned back, grabbing Feuilly by the arms in order to stare at him pointedly.

“You are one talented motherfucker and if you don’t go and become the head gardener at Buckingham Palace I will be very fucking annoyed.” He glared at Feuilly as if the force of his look alone could make it so. Feuilly burst out laughing, almost in tears at the strength of the sentiment.

“Promise!” he shook Feuilly slightly as he emphasised his point. Feuilly smiled at his friend.

“I promise, Bahorel. I’ll tell them to find someone else.” Bahorel released him, satisfied.

The evening ended with them both staggering out of the pub after last orders, decidedly the worse for wear. Bahorel had somehow acquired Feuilly’s elf hat. They both drew stares and giggles as they struggled together down the road singing “Oh We Wish it Could Be Summer Every Day” at the tops of their lungs until a less than friendly policeman advised them to keep it down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of Bahorel as Father Christmas was just too funny not to write.
> 
> There is a plan here for these two - promise!


	3. Light Troubled By Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly suspects he might be in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for drunken fumbles? it is meant to be consensual but there was alcohol so there's a CW for just incases.

Feuilly wasn’t sure how or when it started. When he reflected on the events of the last year or so, there were more than a few incidents that sprung to mind which may explain the origins of this empty sensation currently pooling in his chest.

He suspected it might have begun even earlier than he remembered, but the first occasion that sprang to mind was back in February, just after he received the letter from the Housing Association. It advised him that, as he had successfully reached the age of 18, he was now obliged to leave his current Residential Housing placement. The letter was most apologetic, its author obviously unaware how much Feuilly hated living where he did. 

Irrespective of whether he loved or loathed it, he had to be out of his room before the end of March.

“Would you be able to do me a massive favour?”

There hadn’t been much opportunity to talk to Bahorel the following Saturday, what with the deliveries and the fact that they were still short-staffed. Additionally, for some unfathomable reason, the whole world and its life-partner had apparently chosen that weekend to start their gardening plans for the year. 

Bahorel had been assigned over to Sheds for the day after the usual guy had called in sick so Feuilly had been running Plants by himself. When he went into the staffroom to top up his coffee he nearly collided with the taller man who was obviously on his way back out.

“What’s that?” Bahorel enquired, eyes very much fixed past Feuilly towards the store and the bedlam beyond.

“I’m moving again.” That got Bahorel’s full attention, eyes snapping with concern towards his mate.

“Nothing serious. Just getting out of that place. They finally got me somewhere of my own.” Feuilly shrugged but wasn’t able to hide his smile. Bahorel knew how much he hated living where he did. 

“Was wondering if you could give me a hand?” 

“Yeah sure, no worries,” Bahorel agreed readily.

Bahorel showed up with his parent’s old estate car. He’d been to the building a couple of times to pick Feuilly up but he’d never been inside before. Feuilly walked him through the double doors, past the broken payphone in the hallway and up the stairs towards his room. A couple of kids, teenagers, no older than fourteen, were loitering on the landing. They sniggered as he got to the top of the stairs but Feuilly smirked, enjoying the colour draining from their faces as Bahorel waltzed into view. They quickly disappeared.

There wasn’t that much stuff to move. Feuilly had shoved all his clothes into a couple of bin bags. There were a number of boxes containing books, files, notebooks and other items from his horticulture course. There was a box with his kitchen items in and a suitcase containing his bed linen. Bahorel pursed his lips.

“Boxes first, I guess,” he said gruffly.

By the time they had finished rushing up and down the stairs, both boys were hot and sweaty and, in Feuilly’s case, somewhat out of breath. He kept his eyes firmly away from how Bahorel’s t-shirt clung to the man’s biceps as he squeezed into the passenger seat and directed Bahorel to the office where he needed to drop off his old keys.

He emerged a few moments later armed with a new set of keys. Fifteen minutes later and they stood outside a respectable block of flats. Bahorel hummed with approval. 

“Oh.” Feuilly’s heart plummeted the three floors down when he opened the door to his new studio flat. He wrestled the letter out of his pocket and perused it carefully before staring back into the room; the room which was completely empty and decidedly unfurnished.

“Holy shit.” Bahorel could always be counted upon to be eloquent in times of crisis.

They moved the boxes up anyway because, really, what else could they do? They then sat on the floor, pondering what to do next.

“Come on,” Bahorel stood up, extending his arm to his mate. “Let’s hit Ikea. We can get you a bed at the very least.”

Later that evening, armed with a set of allen keys and screwdrivers, some beers and a Chinese take-out on its way, the pair of them worked to put Feuilly’s new bed together.

“I’d ask you to move in with me,” Bahorel broke the silence, twisting a particularly obstinate screw into place. “Sadly, even if my parents did agree to it, I’ll be leaving in a few months myself.”

Thinking back on it, that should have been Feuilly’s first clue. It was something they just didn’t talk about; Bahorel leaving. Bahorel was still on the fence about the whole ‘studying law’ thing and Feuilly had stuck his head in the sand completely over the thought of what he was going to do once Bahorel left.

“So,” he cleared his throat to move on from the suddenly awkward silence, something Feuilly was quite grateful for. “How come you’re moving now? Did they finally agree that six break-ins in five months was a bit much?” 

Feuilly sighed. He hadn’t told Bahorel that it had been his birthday. He wasn’t entirely sure why, it’s just birthdays weren’t a big deal for him. They just sort of happened. The only thing marking this one any different was his change in housing circumstances.

“Well, I turned 18 so I can’t live in Residential Care anymore,” he said ever so casually, as if it wasn’t a big deal at all, as if this wasn’t the biggest change in his circumstances since the death of his parents. Judging by the way Bahorel did a perfect imitation of suffering a heart attack, his best mate didn’t quite feel the same.

“You turned 18 and didn’t tell anyone?” Bahorel towered over him, looking both furious and baffled all at the same time. Feuilly wasn’t easily cowed, especially as Bahorel didn’t seem to realise that he looked more like a puffed up cat when he had a fit like this.

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It is to me, sunshine,” Bahorel glared at him. “It means you can start buying your own fucking drinks, for a start.”

+

“It’s not really my birthday,” Feuilly protested as a large badge was pinned to his shirt. Bahorel glared at him.

“And whose fault is that, may I ask?” he growled rhetorically. He patted down his pockets, ensuring he had his wallet, phone and keys before shouting a quick goodbye to his parents in the living room and then pushing his hapless friend out of the door.

Bahorel had been planning this for a week. He had agreed not to mention it to anyone at work as long as Feuilly allowed Bahorel to take him out on the town to celebrate ‘properly’.

Birthdays at work had been something to be afraid of ever since Claire had taken over the management in January. When Jed brought in the cakes for everyone on his birthday, Claire had insisted on singing “happy birthday to you” over the store intercom. 

It had been hoped it was just Jed but then Brian had turned 40 in the first week of February. As soon as Claire’s dulcet tones chimed throughout the store, Feuilly knew he would never be admitting to his 18th birthday when it took place the following week. Bahorel’s idea of “celebrating properly” may have been terrifying but it was infinitely preferable to being ritually humiliated at your place of work.

They had started in an old man’s pub with a pint of Guinness. It was not Feuilly’s beer of choice but Bahorel seemed to have a speech prepared regarding rites of passage and it was just easier to drink up. They were eyed with amusement by the old boys propping up the bar. Feuilly had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

His worst fears were confirmed when he was dragged into the next place, a trendy little bar that had probably never heard of real ale. A bottle of Corona was popped down in front of him and he obediently downed it, the bitter lime stinging his chapped lips.

After the fourth bar and two shots of Navy rum, he was beginning to feel more than a little warm. Feuilly liked a drink but mixing like this had always seemed like a bad idea and now it seemed as though Bahorel was on a mission to prove him right.

Now they were in a bar, a bar he couldn’t remember the name of; Bahorel had just dragged him in here like he had all the others. He was still wearing the over-sized badge proclaiming that it was his birthday and now that he had a few drinks sloshing round his blood stream he didn’t feel so embarrassed by it.

The music was very loud; he could barely hear the barman. Money changed hands without him really being certain how much he was being charged, something Sober Feuilly would be very unhappy about in the morning.

He turned to Bahorel who was flanked by two girls who had seemingly sprung up from nowhere. He could see Bahorel waving his arm, gesturing in Feuilly’s direction, obviously telling them it was his birthday. Suddenly their arms were round him and both were kissing him on the cheek, their lips warm and sticky.

Another shot glass was being thrust into his hand and Bahorel, judging by his wild gesticulations, was instructing him to drink. Which he did. It was a bitter taste which normally wouldn’t have made him wince except that it sat on top of everything else he had drunk that night. 

Bahorel slung an arm around his shoulders.

“How’syerbirthday?” a decidedly slurred voice bellowed into his ear above the noise in the bar, 

Feuilly didn’t have the brain cells to think about it too much. He was having a brilliant time. He was drunk, he felt a little bit nauseous, the lights kept flashing and the music couldn’t actually be called music because it was just bass that reverberated through his spine; but he was having the best fake 18th birthday night out ever.

“Brilliant!” he managed. Bahorel grinned at him.

When he woke up he found he was asleep on a carpet, stripped to his boxer shorts and covered in a shower curtain. His mouth felt like he had eaten a dead hamster at some point in the night and his head was being pounded repeatedly by trolls armed with mallets.

The carpet was blue, a fact that ran around painfully in his mind for quite a while before he realised he didn’t even have carpet in his flat.

His body shot up so he could try and take in his surroundings, a move that was definitely a mistake as his stomach instantly protested. Mercifully he was sick on the shower curtain rather than the carpet. 

“Oh gooooooooooooooood.” There was a very long groan of pain from somewhere to his right. Bahorel emerged from under a duvet looking like death warmed up.

“How the fuck did you get a black eye?” Feuilly groaned, his own voice echoing painfully round his head.

“Where did you get that duck?” Bahorel gestured towards a rubber duck discarded on the floor next to Feuilly’s shoes.

“Where are my clothes?” A real note of fear crept into Feuilly’s tone now. He didn’t imagine for a moment that Bahorel would make him do the walk of shame stark naked but he really couldn’t afford to shell out for new clothes right now, not when he had a flat to furnish. 

There came a knock at the door.

“You’re both alive then.” Bahorel’s mother did not sound very impressed at all. 

She clucked at the state of the pair of them, carefully picking up the shower curtain while dismissing Feuilly’s protests and apologies. She gave them a running commentary of how they had been dropped home by taxi at three o’clock in the morning, steaming drunk and clutching a For Sale sign that was still in the front garden. Feuilly’s clothes were already in the washing machine but as to everything else she had no clues to offer. She stood at the door way, her face breaking into a soft smile.

“When you’ve both had a shower I’ll make you some bacon sandwiches,” she finished, sweeping efficiently out of the room.

“Now you’re 18,” grumbled Bahorel, rolling back over for another snooze.

+

“Do you know what we should do?” Bahorel was hiding from Claire in the big glass house while Feuilly pricked out some of the saplings before replanting them. He didn’t even look up from his work. Bahorel continued, undeterred.

“We should road trip.” Feuilly snorted derisively.

“Bahorel, this is England. English people don’t ‘road trip’, we go on holiday. You can’t ‘road trip’ when your country is only six hundred miles long.”

“Careful, Feuilly, you know how I can’t control myself when you get all… pedantic.” Bahorel teased. Feuilly rolled his eyes, continuing with his work.

“No really, we can get the Channel Tunnel and go to France. Cheap wine, cheese, camping!” He almost toppled off the bench waving his arms in the air. “It’d be a laugh.”

Feuilly set his pot down, seriously considering his friend’s proposition. He had never actually been on holiday before, not properly. At St Margaret’s the boys had been taken to Hunstanton beach once a year for the day and there had once been a school trip to an activity camp in Dorset but never an actual proper holiday.   
It was very tempting but there was a tiny, weeny little problem.

“I’d need a passport wouldn’t I?” he asked at last.

“Well yeah.” Bahorel made a face. “Don’t tell me you don’t have one.” 

Feuilly narrowed his eyes, bitterly pressing out another sapling before roughly shoving it into its new home.

“Bahorel, you helped me move house. You know what I have and haven’t got.” 

There wasn’t time for the silence to get awkward as Claire chose that moment to burst into the glass house and ushered Bahorel back outside to do some work.

Bahorel’s shift had ended before Feuilly had finished in the glass house. Normally he would send a text asking if he fancied meeting up for a drink but this evening he went straight back to his flat, decidedly not in the mood.

He was surprised to find Bahorel leaning against his door. He held out a stack of papers.

“Passport application forms. You always need two in case you fuck one up. Also, I printed out all the info on what you need to apply and how to request copies of things like birth certificates.” Feuilly stared down at the papers in his hand before looking up, aware that his mouth was hanging open slightly.

“I want us to go on this fucking trip. I want to go to France, get drunk on cheap wine, and have an awesome time before I go and be boring and serious and grownup in London.” Bahorel stared at him intently. Feuilly nodded.

“Ok. I’ll get a passport.”

“Good. Now open the fucking door, my arse has gone to sleep waiting for you.” 

+

Feuilly didn’t remember that much about Bahorel’s leaving do. It hadn’t been as messy as Feuilly’s birthday because Claire had organised it and no one wanted to be too drunk around their colleagues. 

There had been the usual whip round for a card and a leaving gift. Knowing his love for loud shirts and hideous jumpers, they’d brought him a huge Fair Isle sweater in orange, green and brown. Bahorel had roared with laughter and had insisted on wearing it for the whole of his last shift.

When the garden centre had closed that evening, everyone had headed for the nearest pub. Somehow Claire had managed to break out the company credit card so the first couple of rounds were free.

One of the few things Feuilly did remember was Claire cornering him at the bar while Bahorel got talked into downing a dirty pint.

“What are you going to do without him?” she slurred into his ear. The question took him by surprise. He had been trying not to think about it. Over the last couple of months the pair of them had been concentrating on planning their upcoming trip to France, not to mention Bahorel now had A Level exams to take in the next few weeks.

Asking him while he was drunk wasn’t fair because instantly his mood dropped, made worse by the sound of Bahorel’s splutter of laughter as he finished his drink, roaring away in the background. Feuilly was suddenly all too aware of just how awful it was going to be working alone again. He gratefully accepted another drink.

+

France was something else. Bahorel had picked him up at ridiculous o’clock in the morning so they could make good time on their drive down to Folkestone to catch their train. They emerged into Northern France just as the sun came up and it was like stepping into another world.

It was just over three hundred kilometres to their campsite but they took their time, driving leisurely down the coast of France. Bahorel insisted on stopping off at Etaples to see the huge war cemetery there. They grabbed a spot of lunch in a little café and Feuilly took the opportunity to try out his rusty French, much to Bahorel’s delight.

“Just because I never went to France, doesn’t mean I didn’t try to pass my French GCSE,” he said smugly.

The campsite was lovely, set in a wooded area. They made quick work of the (allegedly) four man tent before heading on out in search of a bar. In the evening they rented a BBQ from the central office and sat outside, soaking up the warm evening air, watching the old men play Boules on the gravel roads.

“It’s not a bad life,” Bahorel stretched out on his camping chair, resting his head back, eyes closed. Feuilly couldn’t help but agree with him.

The night crept up on them and soon they were battling to get into their sleeping bags. There was no way the tent would hold four men. It barely held one Bahorel, one Feuilly and one rucksack. 

Bahorel was out for the count within a couple of minutes, the early start, long drive and red wine quickly taking its toll. Feuilly lay awake for some time, listening to Bahorel’s earth-shattering snores. It was then that he truly began to suspect that he might be in trouble.

Feuilly had assumed he was gay when he was quite young. It hadn’t been a big deal, just one more thing for him to deal with, one more secret to keep close to his chest. When he was fourteen this suspicion had gathered a fair bit of weight when he had been kissed and then been given his first blow job by a boy on a school trip to a theme park. The boy in question had been sitting next to him in Maths for months, apparently with the intention of confessing his undying love to the somewhat confused and surprised Feuilly. He had tried not to take it personally when the boy had refused to speak to him afterwards. It hadn’t mattered either way when he was moved to a different foster family, and consequentially a different school, two months later.

It had therefore come as something of a shock when, just before his fifteenth birthday, he got off with a girl at a party he had been dragged to by an older foster brother.

It hadn’t been one of Feuilly’s prouder moments in his life. There had been an awful lot of alcohol at the party but really that was no excuse. Both he and the girl in question had been perfectly lucid as she pressed against him, sloppily kissing his ear.

He had been about to apologise and tell her that she wasn’t his type when she reached down, grabbed his hand and pressed it to her chest. To his unbelievable surprise he found it to be quite pleasant, dare one say ‘hot’.

They had retreated outside to a secluded spot, kissing messily until he had pressed her up against a wall. She guided his hand up her skirt to her panties. He felt a little out of his depth but was otherwise very turned on even if he had no idea what he was doing.

A few more encounters later with both boys and girls he came to the conclusion that he liked both. Not having any parents to make an earth-shattering declaration to he kept all of this information to himself, allowing people around him to just assume he was straight because it was easier. A small part of him grated at this small dishonesty but he told himself that his sexuality shouldn’t matter to anyone other than himself and his chosen partner.

Now, squashed in a tent in Northern France with Bahorel and all these uncomfortable feelings, he began to revise that opinion. His sexuality probably mattered quite a bit to Bahorel as the object of Feuilly’s current crush. The man in question had no idea that his best mate was currently trying to lie as far away from him as possible, reciting Latin names for obscure plants over and over, willing himself to sleep and to not think about the warm skin of his best mate that he could almost reach out and touch. 

The two weeks went by unbelievably quickly. They visited all the D-Day Beaches, went to Pegasus Bridge, the Pont du Hoc and also saw the Mulberry harbours sunk in the sands of Arromanches.

For two of the days they stayed at the campsite, taking advantage of the campsite swimming pool. Bahorel’s already dark skin managed to get darker and, despite Feuilly breaking out the Factor Fifty, he still ended up with freckles all over his shoulders.

One night they ended up in a bar in Houlgate. Bahorel was merrily chatting up a couple of girls in the bar, tourists from Sweden staying in a nearby hotel. Feuilly joined in, never one to mope and determined to enjoy himself. He found himself chatting with a pleasant little blonde called Damaris who seemed to be doing a fairly impressive job of being interested in horticulture.

He cast a glance at Bahorel who was already muttering dirty jokes into the other girl’s ear, a short, freckly redhead whose name Feuilly hadn’t managed to catch.

They inevitably ended up stumbling back to the girls’ hotel room. Damaris was decidedly the worse for wear and so Feuilly charitably tucked her into bed with a bowl before retiring to the bathroom with a pillow. He curled up in the tub and tried to ignore the sound of Bahorel fucking Damaris’s friend in the other room. 

The walk back to the campsite the following morning was decidedly chilly and not just because of the freshness of the air. They stopped off at a patisserie to pick up some fresh croissants and brioche for breakfast.

“What’s got your knickers in a knot?” Bahorel jovially enquired as Feuilly rubbed gingerly at his stiff neck.

“Bath tubs are not as comfortable as you might think,” he countered, savagely taking a bite from his croissant. Bahorel just laughed at him. Feuilly knew he should be pissed off but somehow he just couldn’t manage it. That was very worrying indeed.

The trip home was somewhat sombre. They’d packed up the tent, stuffed their sleeping bags into the back and gotten on to the road. There were plans to stop off at Rouen to see the famous cathedral before getting back to the Channel Tunnel.

He slept for most of the car drive back home from Folkestone, somewhat surprised when Bahorel shook him awake.

“You can sleep on my floor tonight, if you like?” Bahorel offered as Feuilly desperately tried to wake up enough to climb the stairs to his flat.

“Nah, it’s fine mate. I’m ok.”

He still insisted on walking up to the flat with him, carrying his bag.

“Cheers for coming with me, mate. It’s been a laugh.” Then he was gone.

+

Bahorel was drunk. Feuilly didn’t think he had ever seen him so drunk. When he had finished his shift and joined the man in the pub he wondered for a moment whether there had been a terrible mistake because Bahorel looked like someone who had just failed his A Levels rather than someone who had passed them spectacularly.

“Hey,” he touched his arm gently. Bahorel turned slowly, almost comically slow, round to face him.

“Oh it’s you,” his eyes lit up, pulling Feuilly into a rib-cracking hug, almost knocking all the air from his lungs. “You’re my favourite gardener.”

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Feuilly managed to disentangle himself, arranging his face into what he hoped was a congratulatory smile. Bahorel waved his arms dismissively.

“Yeah, yeah, I passed my exams. I’ve made everyone very proud. I’m finally settling down yada yada yada.”

He almost told him then. He was so close, but what good would it have done? It wouldn’t have been fair. Bahorel had a great future ahead of him. What would Feuilly expect the guy to do with his feelings? Not to mention Bahorel had never displayed any inclination for boys or any feelings for Feuilly other than those usually shared by colleagues, drinking buddies and best mates. It was for the best that he kept it to himself.

+

He sat in his studio flat, alone on the bed that they had stayed up all night putting together, staring at the photos from France on his wall. Judging by the time, Bahorel would already be in London, probably settling in to his new halls of residence, meeting new and exciting people. 

It hurt. He tried to remember when thinking about Bahorel, and the fact that Bahorel wasn’t going to be here anymore, had started to hurt.

+

In the Student Union bar, Bahorel had found a kindred spirit. He had discovered L’Aigle when the man had fallen over the back of Bahorel’s chair. Bahorel had charitably reached forward and grabbed the guy by the back of his coat before setting him back on his feet. After discovering a fellow law student and, what’s more, an unwilling law student, he had roared with laughter and invited the guy to join him.

He automatically turned to share the joke with Feuilly, but suddenly felt very sober indeed when he remembered his favourite redhead wasn’t there. He shook his head, pushing his confusion and sudden pang of emptiness aside, and ordered another drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay!  
> Finally managed to sit down and write this beast (many thanks to epeolatry for cheering me on!)
> 
> Please go to Normandy. I haven't even started to do it justice in this chapter but it is soooo interesting I can't even begin to tell you. Etaples is such a hauntingly beautiful and sad place. All the D-Day beaches are incredible and the Mulberry Harbours just make your brains boil at the audaciousness (is that a word? it is now)


	4. Fireworks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aww, bless, do you miss me?” Bahorel cooed down the phone. _Bastard_. 
> 
> “Fuck off!” _Of course I miss you, you complete fucking prick._

“So how’s work?”

Feuilly rested his phone between his ear and his shoulder, battling to light a cigarette with his nearly empty lighter.

“Quiet,” he replied, finally succeeding and taking a long drag. “Claire’s driving me up the fucking wall. I think she forgets that I pretty much ran that section on my own for a clear year before you showed up.”

“Aww, bless, do you miss me?” Bahorel cooed down the phone. _Bastard_.

“Fuck off!” _Of course I miss you, you complete fucking prick._

“Anyway, I don’t have time to miss you, arsehole. Between work and looking for apprenticeships and art class…” The bark of Bahorel’s laughter interrupted him, and if goosebumps appeared on the back of his neck at that glorious sound well, no one was there to see.

“Art class?”

“Yes. What of it?” Feuilly challenged, leaning out of his window to flick his ash while trying not to drop his phone at the same time.

“Fine, fine. Whatever,” Bahorel offered peaceably.

“Claire got me to go.”

-

_“You’re moping,”_

_“I’m not”_

_“Prove it!”_

_“I don’t have to prove anything.”_

_“Yes, you do. I’m your boss, you’re my minion. If you say you’re not moping then you’re going to prove it. I’ve got an art class this evening, why don’t you come with me to that?”_

_“What makes you think I’m any good at art?”_

_“Apart from the fact that you’re stupidly talented with your hands and you have a brain-boggling eye for colour?”_

_“Fine, I’ll come to your stupid art class.”_

-

“Sounds like you and Claire are getting along really well,” Bahorel commented suggestively. He made a disappointed noise as Feuilly exploded into laughter down the phone.

“You got to be fucking kidding me! I mean, you worked with her for seven months too, right? Claire?!”

Claire was sweet but she was way too perky, and fussy, not to mention absolutely obsessed with Greg the delivery guy.

“Actually, I have been seeing someone.” Feuilly muttered after a moment. He bit his lip, wondering if he wanted to admit this to Bahorel. Was it weird to talk to your best mate who you absolutely fancied the fuck out of about other people you were dating?

“Hey, good for you! What’s her name?” Feuilly huffed at the assumption but carried on regardless.

“Sonja. We met at the art class.”

Feuilly had enjoyed the class immensely, not that he was about to admit that to Claire, although he would probably – definitely – be going back next week. It had been a total joy to have the opportunity to draw again when he hadn’t actually picked up a pencil or chalks with serious intent since he had left school.

Sonja, a pretty blonde girl with startling green eyes, had been sitting on the stool adjacent to his easel. She had caught his eye a few times during the session, smiling coyly before approaching him at the end. She had admired his drawing, smiled when he returned the compliment, and agreed readily when he suggested meeting for coffee. She hadn’t been his usual type but with Claire watching him like a hawk he felt he had little choice in the matter. Besides, there was nothing so bad about a date with a pretty and talented girl.

Coffee had gone quite well. Sonja had moved over from Lublin with her family and helped to run her father’s Polish Grocery store in town. She liked to talk about herself a fair bit which had grated towards the end, but he gave her the benefit of the doubt and a second date to the cinema had been arranged.

“What about London? I bet you’re fighting the girls off – all those freshers,” Feuilly lit a second cigarette with the last of his first, soaking up the rich sound of Bahorel’s chuckle.

“Uni is cool. I’ve made some really great friends. I’ll introduce you when you get your skinny ginger arse down here.”

There was a pause

“Which reminds me, I’ll be back the first weekend of November if you wanted to catch up?” Yes please god yes please.

“Yeah, should be doable. I’m owed some days off. I’ll check with Claire.” Feuilly felt he deserved an Oscar in that moment for that entirely convincing impression of nonchalance that he just carried off.

“You doing anything exciting for Halloween?” Bahorel asked, moving back to safer conversation territory.

“Yeah. Sonja’s invited me to some party.” He allowed the cynicism to cloud his tone.

“Well I know how much you love to dress up!” Bahorel was laughing at him again. Why did that bastard have to keep doing that?

“Fuck off.” He grumbled, half –heartedly.

\---

So far the party was not going well at all. Sonja had thrown a fit when she’d seen him. Personally, he didn’t see what the problem was.

“You’re not dressed!” she screeched. Feuilly rolled his eyes.

“You know, it’s weird you say that coz it sure as hell feels like I’m wearing clothes.” It was perhaps a bit harsh but he was bored of being yelled at. They had only been going on dates for a couple of weeks and already she picked at him for not texting or ringing her enough. Considering that being with someone was supposed to be fun, he was finding her to be hard work.

She glared at the jeans and t-shirt he was wearing. Sonja, on the other hand, was dolled up in a little black dress with sunglasses, an attempt to pull off Audrey Hepburn that didn’t quite work. Feuilly sighed.

“I’m dressed as a serial killer. Because they look like everyone else,” he quipped. She folded her arms, clearly unimpressed and probably not picking up the reference.

“Ugh, fine. Let’s go.”

As soon as they had arrived, she had taken off into the house and he hadn’t seen her since. That had been about thirty minutes ago. He was in the kitchen, checking out the fridge with the intention of helping himself to another beer. He would give Sonja another ten minutes to answer the text he had sent her and then he’d leave. He wasn’t expecting a response but Feuilly wasn’t the type of guy to just leave someone behind without fair warning.

Someone leaned across him to help themselves to one of the beers in the fridge and Feuilly caught the scent of a familiar aftershave. He turned to see who owned the arm and was surprised to find him standing quite close by, flicking open the beer while grinning at him.

He wasn’t tall enough, or broad enough, dark enough or tattooed enough, but he had an attractive smile and, more importantly, he was the only other fucker here not wearing a stupid outfit. That seemed to be sufficient and somehow they ended up on the couch chatting. 

His name was Marek and he had a gorgeous accent to go with it. After one beer, Feuilly found out that Marek was a postal worker in his mid-twenties but he was saving money to go to University to study engineering. After three beers, he and Feuilly shared some very vocal and angry opinions about the inherent sexism relating to Halloween costumes which swiftly moved on to the commercialisation of all holidays as they opened their fourth drink.

“Take Christmas,” Marek waved his arm, narrowly avoiding knocking Feuilly’s beer.

“It’s one day, yet people spend nearly half the year building up to it!” Marek sounded mystified at the concept.

“Oh fucking tell me about it,” Feuilly joined in. “People stuff themselves on food they don’t like, make themselves poor buying gifts people don’t really want…” Marek snorted with laughter, nodding his head.

“You don’t believe in Santa, then?” he winked, nudging Feuilly in the side, the contact making him shiver.

 _Believe in him?_ And suddenly he’s thinking of Bahorel again, in that fucking Santa outfit and last Christmas Eve and _that’s enough of that…_

He turned his head and suddenly Marek was close. Very close in fact. And then their lips were brushing and every time Feuilly breathed in he got a lungful of that aftershave but he ignored the little voice in his head that told him that was a bad thing, choosing to concentrate on the soft lips pressed to his, the little moan Marek had just made against his mouth, the inquisitive tongue and oh fuck…

“Are you ok with this, is this good?” he said, pulling back. Because he was drunk. And kissing guys when drunk was one of those things Feuilly tried not to do too often, no matter how fucking gorgeous they were, or how nice their voice or how green their eyes. Marek hummed in response. He was good.

Marek was so good with it, he was pulling Feuilly off the sofa to his feet. Then they were stumbling through a door and suddenly they were in a bathroom and Feuilly felt the doorknob pressing into his spine as Marek pushed him roughly backwards against the door, held in place by Marek’s hand, Marek’s body, Marek’s mouth.

Feuilly gasped against that mouth, rolling his hips to meet the other man’s, hands exploring as they moved together.

“Fuck” Marek gasped, before dropping to his knees. Feuilly rested his head against the door as nimble fingers made quick work of his jeans.

“You’re good with this yes? No problems with me blowing your goddamned brains out?” he grinned up at him from his position on the floor, his eyes flashing, his accent twisting round the words and sending heat straight to Feuilly’s cock, making him groan.

“Oh fuck yes,” he managed, fisting his hand through Marek’s short blond hair. He whimpered as an inquisitive tongue roved from the base of his cock all the way to his tip before flashing across the slit. Then there was warm, glorious wet heat as he was taken in Marek’s mouth and it took all his control not to thrust forward, to just fuck the guy’s mouth while he held him in place. He felt fingers pressing against his hips, keeping him grounded.

Marek hummed around his cock, sending chills right through him. God this was going to be embarrassingly quick. He clenched his fists, trying to hold on. Marek was sucking him off beautifully, bobbing his head enthusiastically whilst palming himself through his trousers at the same time.

“Ah, fuck!” he swore loudly, “I’m close… I’m close,” he tried to warn the guy but Marek only took him deeper, his intention clear. A tap of fingers on his hip confirmed the permission given and Feuilly came hard, collapsing against the door, trying to remain upright.

He was aware of the other guy moving his fist vigorously before hissing through his own orgasm. Feuilly pulled up his jeans before he sank down to join him on the floor of the bathroom. He dropped his head onto the man’s shoulder. Automatically he reached into the pocket of his jeans and drew out a crumpled packet of cigarettes.

“Smoke?”

“Please.” He lit two before passing one over. They smoked together in silence, while Marek cleaned himself up with a towel.

Suddenly Feuilly’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He stared down in a daze at a text from Sonja. Oh right, Sonja…

“Shit, it’s the girlfriend,” he muttered. Marek laughed, taking it in good humour. Feuilly shrugged, grinning.

“She stormed off at the start of the party. Haven’t seen her all night. I told her about two hours ago that I was leaving. This-” he waved the phone at Marek, “is her message to say she’s dumping me. As you can tell I’m properly broken hearted about it.”

“Who was she?” he asked, casually, climbing to his feet and offering a hand out to Feuilly.

“Girl from my art class. Sonja?” Marek’s eyes widened. Feuily suddenly had a bad feeling about this.

“My sister, Sonja?” 

\---

“So, are you still with - what’s her name – Sonja?” Bahorel grabbed a beer out of the fridge and offered it to Feuilly who accepted it, cracking it open.

“Nah,” he muttered, suddenly sheepish. “She, er, has a very attractive brother.” He let that sentence hang there for a moment. Bahorel turned around, grinning at him.

“Why you sly old thing!” he said finally, taking a swig of his own beer. “I didn’t know you swung both ways. Since when?”

Something hit a nerve deep inside Feuilly and he found himself snapping.

“Since always, Bahorel. You don’t just wake up one day and say ‘hey, you know what I fancy doing today? Guys’.” he slammed the beer down on the kitchen counter. Bahorel threw his hands up defensively.

“Hey, come on,” he protested. “I’m not a complete prick. One minute we’re having a light conversation about you fucking your girlfriend’s brother, the next minute you’re halfway down my throat.”

 _I wish_ , Feuilly thought and that really wasn’t helping the situation at all. He sighed, heavily, scowling at his feet.

“Look, let’s start this conversation from the beginning. Please?”

He looked up at Bahorel. He’d never heard such a soft tone from his friend before. The man was looking at him with real concern in his eyes and it didn’t suit him at all.

“Fine. Bahorel, I think I should tell you that I’m bisexual.” He closed his eyes.

“Thank you for telling me,” he responded. “Do you mind if I ask, are you out to anyone else?”

Feuilly hadn’t really thought about it. There was no one else to tell. The only reason he hadn’t mentioned it to Bahorel before was because it hadn’t really come up in conversation (well, maybe not the only reason).

“I… don’t honestly know?” he said, turning the sentence into a question. Bahorel nodded to himself.

“That’s ok, I will, of course, respect your decision and keep this information to myself until you feel ready to share with other people, if you ever do.”

It was strange to hear him talk like this. So efficient. So un-Bahorel-like.

“Are we good?” Bahorel sounded like he was prepared for a negative response.

No they weren’t good. Nothing was good because this would have been the perfect time, the perfect opportunity for Bahorel to say “You know what, Feuilly? Me too.” 

But he hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t, because he wasn’t and never would be because Bahorel was straight and Feuilly hated that it hurt so much to have it finally confirmed. He pushed all of that very deep down inside his soul and locked it firmly.

“Yeah, mate. We’re good.” He even sounded like he meant it because Bahorel patted his shoulder affectionately.

“I am glad you told me, mate, I honestly had no idea. And I’m sorry if I came across as insensitive, I definitely didn’t mean to be a total arsehole.” Feuilly knew that. Bahorel could never be a total arsehole. He would always be Bahorel. 

\---

They walked to the park, chatting together quite happily about London and Uni and work. Feuilly wondered why he had been so worried about telling Bahorel about his sexuality. Apart from his own frustrations, there was no awkwardness. It was exactly the same as before.

Okay, so was he imagining it or was that the third time Bahorel had bumped him in the arm? But they’d always shoved each other, elbowed each other, not to mention Bahorel’s lethal ‘friendly’ punches that always resulted in a dead arm for half an hour. There had always been a certain level of friendly play and pushing and shoving. All the same…

The place was packed out for the annual Guy Fawkes firework event. The bonfire hadn’t been lit yet so they mooched over towards some vendors selling glowsticks. Feuilly shivered in his jacket, plunging his freezing-cold hands into the pockets. Bahorel tutted at him, grabbing his hands and pressing the icy fingers between his own toasty warm palms. Feuilly fought the urge to wrench them free, Bahorel’s unexpected touch making him break out in goosebumps.

“When the fuck are you going to invest in a decent pair of gloves,” Bahorel growled, before dragging them both towards a van selling soup.

Bahorel stood ridiculously close to him, leaning a casual elbow on Feuilly’s shoulder.

“Hey, watch it. I’m not your personal arm rest,” he protested but he didn’t move away, enjoying the heavy weight on his shoulder. Bahorel grinned at him wickedly.

“Want to go on one of the rides?” Bahorel motioned towards the mini funfair that had set up further down the field. “There’s some sort of fun house and a waltzer.” Feuilly shook his head.

“Pennies,” he said simply. Bahorel nodded.

“Ah well, just as well I’m here then.” Feuilly glanced at him, suddenly feeling nervous. 

“Who needs fair grounds when I can just as easily do this…” and with that, Bahorel seized him by the waist and picked him up as though he weighed nothing at all. Feuilly let out a yell of protest that he didn’t really mean, while Bahorel began to spin him around. Feuilly kicked his legs out, smacking Bahorel’s shoulders with his hands.

“Arsehole! Put me the fuck down!” he laughed, feeling giddy. His cheeks were warm when he was finally returned to the ground, his treacherous heart thumping. Bahorel was killing himself with laughter, his eyes all crinkled.

“Hey! Feuilly!”

The shout brought him back to the moment and he turned to see Marek running down the field towards them, waving. Oh right, Marek…

“Hi,” he rearranged his face to attempt to look pleased that Marek had caught up with them, especially as it had been Marek who had invited them both in the first place.

“This is Bahorel. Bahorel – this is Marek.”

The two guys sized each other up. Bahorel held out his hand to give Marek’s a firm shake.

“Oh, right. This is your old colleague, yes?” Feuilly was facing away from Bahorel so managed to miss the way the guy flinched.

“And you must be the brother of the ex-girlfriend,” he returned with a wolfish grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes. Feuilly spun round, his face full of confusion. Bahorel rolled his shoulders, sniffing unapologetically.

“Looks like they’ve lit the bonfire. Shall we?”

All through the fireworks, Feuilly was aware of Marek pressed against his back, hugging him from behind. His hands rested possessively at Feuilly’s waist as he murmured appreciatively into Feuilly’s ear at the rockets and roman candles, fountains and mines that fired up into the sky. He could see out of the corner of his eye the way Bahorel stood apart from them, his arms folded, his expression blank as he stared at the display.

He didn’t sleep at all that night, unable to place the strange emptiness that had descended. He wondered what had gone wrong.

They met up for a drink the next day before Bahorel caught his train back to London.

“You’ll have to come visit me, next time.” He said gruffly. “I’ll show you all the sights. Introduce you to my fellow law-students. They’re a bit bonkers but then I guess you’d have to be.” Feuilly nodded, barely hearing him, too busy focussing on the way Bahorel’s hands clutched his mug. He thought about those hands pressed over his last night.

\---

When Bahorel got back to Uni he went straight to his room and flopped down on the bed in frustration. What a fucking weekend.

He’d had all these plans to talk to Feuilly. Though what he had hoped to say he had no idea. _I miss you quite a lot and I don’t know why?_ Not exactly Shakespeare.

Things had looked up when Feuilly had opened up to him about his sexuality but then it had all gone south after that because he hadn’t responded to any of Bahorel’s flirting. Not that Bahorel even knew how to flirt with a guy in the first place as he’d never done this before and maybe it wasn’t meant to be because he was in a relationship with this Marek guy who seemed ok apart from being a total prick for going out with Feuilly in the first place.

Bahorel rubbed his eyes. He didn’t understand this strange knot in his stomach. He’d always been straight, or so he’d thought. Not that it bothered him either way. What bothered him was Feuilly. What bothered him was Feuilly’s absence, Feuilly’s apparent indifference, the bastard’s totally confusing behaviour all weekend. The way the fucker’s eyes had lit up when he’d knocked on his door, not to mention that last hug before he said goodbye.

Bahorel rolled over and groaned into his pillow. He’d obviously gotten it wrong somewhere along the line. He’d be better off just leaving it be, whatever it was, letting it alone so it could wither away in its own time.


	5. London: City of Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly has an interview

Feuilly was lucky; he managed to get a seat on the Tube. More people ran onto the carriage at the last minute before the doors slammed shut and the train rumbled off. He checked the instructions on the letter again, before folding it and returning it to his pocket. He looked up to the map on the ceiling of the train, counting the stops until he had to get off.

The prospect of coming to London had been rather exciting for Feuilly. He had never actually been to the city before, even though it was only a quick train journey away. He had stared out of the window all the way to Kings Cross. 

He fidgeted in his seat, uncomfortable in the first shirt, trousers and tie he had worn since leaving school. He hoped it would make a good impression at his interview. 

The letter from Chiswick House had come as a pleasant surprise. He had sent off so many applications but thus far had not been at all successful. The letters they sent back were full of compliments for his experience, his qualifications, and they thanked him for his interest but were sorry and hoped that he understood that it was a very competitive environment. He understood, perhaps a little too well, about the inherent snobbery of the profession he was trying to enter. He tried to keep his paranoia in check.

Chiswick House was a villa set in West London, about a twenty minute walk from the Tube station. Feuilly had left himself plenty of time, to make sure he wouldn’t be late. As he sat on the train, his eye fell upon the woman opposite who was reading one of the Harry Potter books. The sight of it sent his mind wandering back to when he had been eleven years old, spending his Sundays in the allotments with Arthur.

Feuilly had hated Harry Potter. Not the books, you understand, just the character. That lucky bastard had made it seem as though being an orphan was cool. All the kids at St Margaret’s were addicted to the books, talking about the day they would reach their eleventh birthdays and then Dumbledore would come for them. Feuilly thought bitterly of the many tears shed in the darkness of the dormitory.

There had been no vault full of gold under London for Feuilly, no Hagrid knocking down his door. He hadn’t been a wizard, he had been a very confused, angry, frightened little boy and might have remained so if it hadn’t been for Arthur. Thinking of Arthur made Feuilly smile, an unusual occurrence on the Tube.

He remembered the Sunday after his own eleventh birthday, a day he had spent haughtily telling anyone who would listen that he didn’t care that he wasn’t a wizard, when in fact he cared very much indeed. Seven years later, he could see Arthur leaning against his spade, his breath ragged in the fresh February air, listening to Feuilly pour out his woe.

“You listen to me, lad,” he’d said, fixing Feuilly with a firm stare. “If you want something in this life, you have to work for it. Nobody is going to hand anything to you on a plate. Nothing ever fell out of the sky but rain and don’t you forget it. You earn your path in this life, my lad. Understand?”

Feuilly had understood. And he had never forgotten.

+

The pub was quite full but Feuilly managed to find himself a seat with a view of the door. He settled himself down with a drink and a newspaper to wait.

The interview had gone as well as it could and now all he had to do was wait for them to get back to him. They said he would hear in a few days. He had left feeling satisfied that he had done all he could to make a good impression, getting the Tube back towards the centre of London to meet Bahorel for a drink. His friend had sent him a text to say he had been slightly delayed at the gym but would be there as soon as he could. Feuilly relaxed, removing his tie, happy to wait.

The pub was clearly a favourite of students, one of which made his way over to where Feuilly was sitting quietly by himself.

“Mind if I join you?” The guy was stocky and well-built with rugby-player shoulders and a wicked smile that he used to its full effect on Feuilly. He had short, wavy light-brown hair that tumbled about his head in a charming manner. He was attractive and he knew it but there was something else, a sort of boyish innocence that was very forgiving on his otherwise arrogant appearance. Feuilly grinned in return, waving him into a seat.

They struck up an easy conversation, the other guy leaning forward, his head turned slightly to one side, revealing his neck invitingly. Feuilly didn’t mind his obviousness. He quite liked it. A bit of harmless flirting never hurt anyone and he was flattered by the attention.

“I’m Courfeyrac, by the way,” he held out his hand, genially. Feuilly shook it, confirming his own name. Just then a movement in the corner of his vision caught his attention. He looked up to see Bahorel enter the pub. Feuilly wasn’t aware of the look on his face at that moment, but Courfeyrac was treated to one of Feuilly’s very rare natural smiles. At the change in his expression, he couldn’t help but turn around to see what had caused it. By that time, Bahorel was already upon them.

Bahorel swung a firm hand down onto Courfeyrac’s shoulder. Courfeyrac, for his part, had stopped smiling.

“Not that one, Courf,” he murmured quietly at the frankly terrified man sitting beneath his grasp. Feuilly watched with irritated amusement as Courfeyrac hurried an apology and excused himself, practically running back to his own table. Bahorel watched him go with a serious expression on his face, before turning back around and sitting in Courfeyrac’s recently vacated seat.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he grunted, fishing a wallet out of his pocket with the intention of going to the bar. Feuilly snorted, shaking his head.

“You are such a fucking cock-block, Bahorel. The guy was just saying hello.” He sat back, folding his arms. Bahorel laughed outright.

“Trust me, you’ll be thanking me next week when you’re not wondering why he didn’t call.” Feuilly raised a challenging eyebrow. Bahorel groaned in response.

“Look, Courf’s a nice guy, don’t get me wrong. Sound bloke, heart of gold. But he’s not one for serious and, correct me if I’m wrong, but you don’t strike me as a ‘fuck n chuck’ kind of guy. Fair?” Bahorel stood to go to the bar, gesturing to Feuilly’s half empty glass. Feuilly nodded in acceptance, watching as his mate went to get the next round.

He smiled to himself at the thought of Bahorel of all people being worried about Feuilly having his heart played by attractive students in London pubs.

When Bahorel returned, an apologetic pint in hand, the conversation turned to Feuilly’s interview, what he thought his chances were. They talked excitedly of Feuilly moving to London if he got the apprenticeship.

Bahorel sat back in his chair, smiling. He watched and listened as Feuilly spoke animatedly about the role, his hands gesticulating as he talked about how the gardens had been inspired by Ancient Rome, the various plants and the challenges he would face in their care. His whole voice sang with excitement at the prospect of how much he could learn working in that environment. Suddenly he paused, giving Bahorel a funny look.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, somewhat nervous at the way Bahorel was watching him. His mate shrugged, his lower lip protruding for just a moment as he rearranged his expression into something more careless, less intense.

“Just watching you all lit up like a Christmas tree. You really want this position. It’s written all over your body.” The words tumbled out without Bahorel really thinking them through. Luckily Feuilly blushed and looked away, and so missed the slightly horrified look on Bahorel’s face when he realised what he had just said. By the time Feuilly met his eyes again, he had managed to resume a more neutral expression.

“What about you? What have you been up to here in the Big Smoke?” Feuilly took a sip of his beer which had so far been more or less untouched. Bahorel rolled his eyes.

His course was going about as well as could be expected. So far he hadn’t missed too many of the lectures.

“I only need 42% to pass the year,” he said, ignoring the way Feuilly pulled a face. He knew how his friend felt about the privilege of education. However, there was precious little to get excited about when it came to Contract Law.

Mostly he enjoyed the social aspect of being a student. He was one of five law students who found themselves grouped together in the same Halls of Residence and had somehow gathered together as a rag-tag group of friends, including Courfeyrac.

“Wait, so that guy was one of your mates? Jeez Bahorel, the guy looked like he was scared to death of you. What do you do to your enemies?” Bahorel smirked with satisfaction.

Far too soon it was time for Feuilly to catch his train home. Bahorel walked him to the station. He pulled Feuilly in for a bone-crushing hug. 

“Safe trip home, mate. I look forward to hearing the good news that you’re the next Big Thing on the London horticulture circuit.” Feuilly grinned at him before boarding his train.

As he watched Feuilly’s train disappear down the tunnel, Bahorel was left with the echo of that hug and the lingering scent of freshly turned earth and grass cuttings. It followed him all the way back to his Halls.

+

The following week, Feuilly received a letter advising him that Chiswick House was pleased to inform him that he had been accepted as a horticultural apprentice.

Without any hesitation at all he dialled Bahorel’s number, anxious to share his news. Feuilly was moving to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! It may have taken seven years, but Feuilly finally got his letter.
> 
> And hello, Courf, nice to see you! More Amis are pending, waiting in the wings for the next chapter.
> 
> Chiswick House is a beautiful place and the gardens are spectacular.


	6. Chess Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly moves to London and meets Bahorel's fellow students.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for blood and accidents.

_December_

As much as he loved his job, Feuilly couldn’t wait for the day to end. As soon as he was free, he collected his coat and bag from the staffroom and started to jog in the direction of the train station.

Feuilly had been in London for a month and so far he was loving every moment of it. He didn’t mind that he lived in the smallest broom cupboard in the world in a decidedly dodgy area of North London, as long as there was a roof over his head. Bahorel had, once again, helped him move. This time they had rented a small van to move all the furniture and Bahorel had used the opportunity to introduce Feuilly to his fellow Law Students.

Bossuet had been placed on guard duty. His job had been to stand totally still next to the van while the others fetched and carried things out of the flat and down the stairs.

“Trust me,” Bahorel had muttered to Feuilly, “It’s safer this way.” 

Feuilly had liked Bossuet from the moment they had shaken hands. He had a crinkly smile and a gentle yet bright voice. He also had a terrible habit of tripping over his own shoelaces.

Marius was another gentle soul, quicker to blush than to smile. He was somewhat reserved, a little old-fashioned in his manner, and had insisted on taking his shoes off before entering Feuilly’s flat. He had been delegated to overseeing the removal of the boxes from the flat down the stairs and into the van.

Feuilly already knew Courfeyrac, of course, only this time he was met with an easy, unabashed grin. The guy had pulled him into a hug, cheerfully asking that there were no hard feelings before proceeding to apply himself like a Trojan to the task at hand.

Feuilly had wondered about Courf for a bit after what had happened at the pub, but he soon saw that Bahorel was right; he really did have a heart of gold. He didn’t grumble or complain, always took the heaviest box in the pile and kept up a steady stream of cheerful jokes and chatter. The others seemed to gravitate around him and Feuilly quickly found himself being pulled in as well.

The last of the students was a tall blonde boy who looked as though he was recovering from some sort of illness. He was pale to the point of translucence, although it may have been accentuated by the gold of his hair. However his eyes were rimmed with dark shadows and his cheeks were pinched. 

Enjolras was a natural leader. It could easily have translated into arrogance except that he seemed to be almost painfully aware of making sure everyone had a democratic input into what was going on. It was he who had suggested Marius organise the boxes for exit and that Bossuet should watch the van. It was Enjolras who took a black marker and, with Feuilly’s permission of course, marked all the boxes into some kind of order to make it easier to distribute on arrival at the new flat. With Enjolras’s leadership the task was easily and swiftly executed.

Feuilly was confused by Enjolras. He was calm, pleasant, even smiled on occasion, and when he did it was a radiant smile of warmth that reached right up to his eyes. But his smiles were rare and far too quick to end. He kept himself to himself, content to let Courfeyrac make all the noise.

That evening, after the others had gone back to their halls, leaving Bahorel and Feuilly to (once again) screw the bed together, Feuilly asked Bahorel about Enjolras. Bahorel had shrugged.

“Guy comes from Surrey, I think he said. He’s a nice bloke, even if he does come across as a bit distant. I think he’s just quiet.” They ruminated on that for a moment while Bahorel twisted the Allen Key one final time.

“There’s another guy doing a teaching degree – I’ll introduce you when we meet them at the pub – they’re best mates and he’s even quiet with him.”

Feuilly had let it go. After a few more meetings down the pub he got the general idea. Enjolras never drank, never smoked and never indulged. When he spoke, it was with passion and careful delivery of his well-thought-out and thoroughly analysed opinion. Feuilly decided he liked him, too. 

He liked the student teacher as well, Combeferre. He was quiet like Enjolras, but in a more relaxed way. He had a twinkle to his eye that Enjolras lacked, and seemed to be the go-to guy for advice. Certainly he was very easy to trust and Feuilly liked that about him.

He’d also been introduced to Joly, Bossuet’s boyfriend. As far as Feuilly could tell they were beautifully matched to each other. He was extraordinarily cheerful in a fatalistic sort of way which was just as well as Bossuet seemed to be an accident waiting to happen. 

They made a merry group and Feuilly enjoyed drinking with them when he had the pennies, which was less often than he liked. Bahorel dragged him out anyway, telling him gruffly that he expected Feuilly to pay him back in pot plants. 

He found himself easily assimilating into their dynamic. He’d never been part of a big group of friends before. 

Now, on his way to the station, he fished his phone out of his pocket and was surprised to find a number of missed calls from Bahorel. Ordinarily this wouldn’t have been unusual except that Bahorel already knew full well that Feuilly was working today. Surely the man wasn’t as drunk as that already; it was barely five o’clock in the afternoon. 

It had been something of a sore topic for the past two weeks or so; The Law Students were having a Christmas party. It had been Marius’s idea; he wanted everyone to get together for the afternoon to share a traditional Christmas dinner with all the trimmings.

Even though it was meant to be for the Law Students, Bahorel had asked Feuilly to come anyway, knowing full well that Bossuet had already asked Joly. He was fairly sure that Enjolras had invited Combeferre as well, although Enjolras denied that Combeferre would be present.

Unfortunately Feuilly had been scheduled to work and there had been something of a political discussion about whether or not Feuilly should call in sick. They’d made it up after a few days of mutually ignoring each other and there had been a general agreement to never bring it up again. All the same, Feuilly still felt a wave of irritation when he thought about the party and Bahorel’s somewhat superficial work ethic.

He dialled Bahorel’s number.

“Mate, you will never guess where I am.” Bahorel sounded stressed, which was unusual. Few things ruffled Bahorel’s feathers in this life.

“Well I take it you’re not in the Halls then?” Feuilly stopped, wondering if he needed to change direction, perhaps get a bus rather than a train. He heard a click of annoyance from the other end of the line.

“We’re in the University College Hospital. Boss nearly took his hand off carving the fucking turkey.” Somewhere in the background, he could hear someone who sounded like Joly admonishing Bahorel for his choice of language.

Feuilly held his breath, not sure whether he would be allowed to laugh or not. What idiot had allowed Bossuet, of all people, to carve the turkey?!

“How bad is it?” he asked when he eventually trusted his voice.

“He’ll live,” growled Bahorel. Feuilly did laugh then, not at poor Bossuet’s plight, but at Bahorel. The man sounded totally pissed off.

“Do you want me to come over?” Feuilly asked, imagining a sorry band of students cluttering up the waiting room at A&E. 

“Nah, I’ll come to yours once we’re done here. Shouldn’t be too long. I’ll drop you a text.” Feuilly agreed and the call was ended. So much for a turkey dinner. Slowly he headed towards the train station and home.

+

Bahorel ended up staying at Feuilly’s, the pair of them sitting on Feuilly’s bed eating take away and watching bad horror films until the early hours. While the fake blood splashed across the television screen, Bahorel filled Feuilly in on the equally bloody events of the afternoon.

It had all be going so well. Enjolras had been in his element, making lists and designating tasks according to people’s strengths. Courf seemed to be fairly competent in the kitchen and so had been proclaimed chef for the afternoon. He’d even managed to procure a thermometer from somewhere so that they could check the turkey was cooked through before serving. 

Joly had cleared and set the table in the kitchen. There had been crackers and party poppers and a good amount of alcohol just begging to be consumed. Annoyingly enough, Bossuet was stone cold sober when he had taken up the carving knife about thirty seconds prior to it all going wrong.

At first everyone had just stared in shock and poor Bossuet had muttered a strange and detached “oh dear” before collapsing into a chair. Then Joly had leapt into action, his medical training kicking in. He compressed the wound with a tea towel, making solemn promises to have it burnt so no one could accidentally use it to dry dishes ever again, whilst elevating the arm at the same time. It had been strange; he’d been shouting very loudly in an almost hysterical manner, except that what he was shouting made sound medical sense. Bahorel had never seen anything like it.

Marius had run off to get the first aid kit, while Bahorel grabbed his phone with the intention of ringing the out-of-hours medical centre number. It was at that point that he had noticed Enjolras.

“He was freaking out,” Bahorel told Feuilly, his voice serious with a strange kind of awe. “He was all pale and shaky. Of all the people to fall apart at the sight of blood…” He shook his head, obviously shaken by the incident. Feuilly cracked open another beer and passed it to his mate.

“Courf had to drag him out of the room in the end.” He muttered, chewing his lip.

The next day they returned to the Halls, ostensibly to see how Bossuet was getting on now that he had been stitched back together, but also Bahorel hadn’t forgotten about all the alcohol in the kitchen. Feuilly had a few hours before the start of his next shift and so tagged along. They were surprised to find nearly everyone in the kitchen clutching mugs of tea. There was no physical sign left in the kitchen of the events of the day before.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre looked as though they had been up all night. Joly was strangely calm given that his boyfriend had nearly lost most of his left hand the day before. Bossuet was conspicuously absent. The pain medication prescribed by the hospital had apparently knocked him out completely. Enjolras was also missing. 

Marius handed both Bahorel and Feuilly a mug of tea before sitting down at the table.

“Not one of our more successful parties,” Bahorel muttered, dryly. The tension in the room broke, most of them managing to raise a rueful smile.

“Boss will be fine with a lot of rest and some physiotherapy. Assuming it doesn’t get infected.” Joly furrowed his brow as he delivered the last bit of the sentence. Bahorel clapped him on the back.

“If I know you, doctor, you won’t give it the chance to get infected,” he said bracingly before turning to Combeferre and Courfeyrac at the other end of the table.

“You guys look rough as fuck.” He was nothing if not honest and Combeferre managed to raise a tired smile.

“Enjolras went to sleep at about 5 o’clock this morning.” Courf dropped his head onto his hands in the impression of going to sleep right there at the kitchen table.

“What happened?” It was Feuilly who spoke. He thought of Enjolras’s pale skin, his dark eyes. Combeferre looked at him appraisingly but it was Courfeyrac who spoke, his words slightly muffled by his arms.

He told them what Enjolras had told him, what had been said in the late hours of the night when Combeferre had joined them and he had finally calmed down enough to speak coherently.

He told them about Enjolras’s friend from school; how Enjolras had told them his friend had been stabbed, how he had called for an ambulance and administered CPR.

“The memory triggered a panic attack?” At this he raised his head to look to Joly for some sort of confirmation or validation. Joly nodded. It seemed the most likely explanation. From what Enjolras had said, he had been through a horrifying event. It was more than likely Bossuet’s accident had been an unwelcome reminder of the past.

Feuilly watched Combeferre while Courfeyrac spoke, watched how the man blanched slightly at Courf’s casual delivery, his fingers flexing tightly round his mug. The usually calm face seemed to flash with emotion although what that emotion was Feuilly had trouble deciphering. It wasn’t quite anger and it wasn’t quite pain. It was almost regret.

“Did the friend survive?” Feuilly recognised the slight undertone to Bahorel’s voice, though it was likely no one else noticed it. All the same, it made him want to reach over and squeeze Bahorel’s hand in comfort. He remained still.

Courf looked like he didn’t know the answer to that question. Evidently Enjolras hadn’t said.

“Yes,” it was Combeferre who answered. “But obviously going through something like that…” He twisted his mouth, as though unsure whether he wanted to say any more.

“Well of course,” said Bahorel, his face unusually grave. “No wonder he freaked out. Totally understandable.” There was an awkward pause in the kitchen, all the friends lost in their own thoughts. 

“I hope he’s ok.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Combeferre replied smoothly, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. “But I don’t think we should bring it up again. It’s obviously something he’s sensitive about.” 

Everyone nodded in agreement.

+

_January_

It had been a boring Christmas. Feuilly had worked through most of it. With all his student friends back home for the holidays, he had found himself in the bizarre situation where he was left in London while Bahorel was up in Bedfordshire. It was quiet without them and for the first time Feuilly found that actually bothered him.

All the same, he was grateful for the respite on his finances. Moving to London was all very well and good but it was an expensive business. As much as he loved his new job it had come to the point now where he was seriously having to make a choice between buying groceries and paying the bills. His meagre apprenticeship wage could not possibly cover both.

Bahorel, bless him, invited him over to the Halls for dinner once or twice a week where Feuilly would insist on helping to cook, clear away and wash up. He’d even offered to do Bahorel’s laundry, despite the other man’s protests that friends helped friends and Feuilly really didn’t have to do anything in return for a meal and a chat. The others were really nice about it but at the end of the day they were students and just as impoverished. Also, accepting help had never sat well with Feuilly.

_Nothing ever fell out of the sky but rain._

Now that Christmas was over and the new year had begun, Feuilly started to look for a second job to supplement his income.

“Are you planning on sleeping at all?” Bahorel had asked him, watching him hunched over a newspaper, scanning the Jobs pages. Feuilly merely grunted in response. He would sleep when he was dead. 

Job hunting in London wasn’t that easy. Office jobs were not as prevalent as they had once been, although Feuilly couldn’t quite see himself in an office environment anyway. He needed something that would fit around his apprenticeship hours.

There were plenty of students in London looking to fill the part-time jobs on offer. In the end, after a number of rejections and disappointments, Feuilly had abandoned the paper in favour of walking around, looking for vacancies.

It took him well over a month. During that time, it had snowed which had very nearly been a disaster in the gardens at Chiswick House. Additionally, the heating in Feuilly’s studio flat had broken and he’d spent three days sleeping on the floor of Bahorel’s student room. Apparently this was a breach of at least four of the sacred Halls of Residence rules but they managed to get away with it, despite the suspicious glances of the security guard at the gate.

Bossuet’s hand was healing quite nicely and he had avoided getting it infected. Nobody had seen much of Enjolras since the Christmas Party Disaster although Combeferre had assured anyone who asked that he was fine, just a little embarrassed about what had happened. He would come round eventually.

As February rolled into view Feuilly was beginning to lose hope. If he didn’t find a job soon it was likely he would have to quit his apprenticeship and go to live somewhere else, somewhere cheaper, somewhere that wasn’t London. He didn’t want to have to do that; he liked the little life he had carved for himself here. He was determined to hold on for as long as possible. 

The students were stressed as well; the end-of-semester exams were fast approaching. Feuilly was quietly grateful that they were all too busy to want to go out because he sure as hell couldn’t afford to go drinking right now and he wasn’t prepared to have Bahorel pay for him all the time.

Finally, a week before his birthday, he found himself in Covent Garden. He liked Covent Garden, although his travels didn’t usually take him there. He liked to wander amid the chaos, listening to the street performers, the buskers and the tourists all bustling together. He liked the life of the place.

In the corner beneath one of the archways, just past the London Transport Museum, was a small florist shop. He could see a slim, strawberry-blonde figure placing a white card in a window. Feuilly found his feet propelling him firmly towards the shop. As he got closer he could see his suspicions were correct. The white card in the window was an advert for a sales assistant. He entered the shop, a little bell clanging merrily above his head.

The person who had just placed the card was now standing behind the counter, their chin resting dreamily on a skinny hand while they jotted notes in a diary. They were speaking softly into the store phone. As Feuilly walked in, the figure looked up. Feuilly was met by a pair of clear green eyes sparkling at him. 

The assistant held up a long finger to indicate that they would be with him in a moment. There was something very fluid, very ethereal about his movements. Feuilly nodded his understanding and turned to take in the rest of the shop.

It was rather small but then it wouldn’t have needed to be much bigger. Every available surface and wall space was crammed with bouquets and arrangements. The floor was filled with pots and a most delicious scent hung in the air.

As a gardener, Feuilly wasn’t all that keen on florists. He grew plants to live while florists cut them up to make them look pretty, knowing full well they would be dead in a week. It seemed a shame and a waste. However, he was gratified to note a number of potted plants, some bonsai trees and catalogues advertising ornamental trees and bushes. He could see a large Peace Lilly towards the back as well as a number of Bay trees and orchids. There was an element of the long-term about it that Feuilly appreciated.

“I’m so sorry to have kept you, how can I help?” Feuilly turned back around, the assistant’s musical voice inviting in its address of him. He indicated the card in the window.

“I wanted to ask about the job,” he explained.

“Well that was quick.” He moved out from behind the counter, as though it somehow prevented him from getting a proper look at Feuilly. He held out a graceful hand.

“I’m Jean Prouvaire. I’m not in charge at all but it’s nice to meet you.”

The conversation flowed easily between them. Feuilly told Prouvaire about his apprenticeship working for Chiswick House. He explained that those hours would have to take precedence, but if the florist was able to be flexible he’d be more than willing to work as many additional hours as he could.

Prouvaire didn’t laugh at him, only pressed a warm and gentle hand to his arm in understanding. He replied that he was a student and more than sympathetic to Feuilly’s plight. The conversation quickly moved onto Prouvaire’s studies at the London Metropolitan University, as well as his poetry and creative writing. Feuilly felt he could stand there all day talking to this enchanting person.

“I’m sure we’ll be able to sort something out,” Suddenly Prouvaire smiled, his whole face lighting up. It was so warm it was captivating. Later, much later, he would appreciate just how rare and beautiful those smiles were.

He took Feuilly’s details, writing in the book with careful, graceful script that Feuilly envied. Finally, he took a card and wrote out his own details before holding it out for Feuilly to take.

“Call me Jehan.” There was that smile again. Something inside Feuilly’s stomach seemed to clench and drop at the sight of it and he felt the colour rise in his cheeks. “I’ll see you next Saturday,” and with that he bid Feuilly adieu.

Only later that afternoon did Feuilly realise he hadn’t filled out an application form or submitted a CV. He intended to raise it with Jehan the following week when he started. In the meantime he planned to share his good news. He rang Bahorel.

“It means I can stay.” Feuilly told him, the relief evident in his voice. Bahorel didn’t need to ask him if it was that serious; they both knew how close Feuilly had come to making a difficult choice. Now he wouldn’t have to.

“That’s great, mate. I’m really pleased. Now get your skinny ginger arse over here. We’re going to celebrate. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about it being your birthday next week.”

Feuilly groaned over the phone but he didn’t mean it. Bahorel could tell his best mate was grinning in spite of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a bit of a difficult but necessary chapter. But now everyone is present, the fun can begin :)


	7. In The Spring At The End Of The Day You Should Smell Like Dirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "As February drew to a close, it occurred to Bahorel that he hadn’t seen Feuilly in weeks. He knew his friend worked practically every hour that god sent and he understood why, but they had usually made time for a drink at least once or twice a week, if only for thirty minutes. Just to touch base."
> 
> Bahorel and Feuilly try to get together for a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for some homophobic language

As February drew to a close, it occurred to Bahorel that he hadn’t seen Feuilly in weeks. He knew his friend worked practically every hour that god sent and he understood why, but they had usually made time for a drink at least once or twice a week, if only for thirty minutes. Just to touch base. He couldn’t remember having gone without seeing his best mate since he had moved to London.

Of course, it hadn’t been entirely Feuilly’s fault. There had been a number of essay deadlines that had suddenly sprung into view, not to mention a couple of exams that he was expected to pass before proceeding to the next semester. But now the exams were over and done with. Now Bahorel wanted to go out and get smashed with his mates, or more specifically his best mate.

He dialled Feuilly’s number and waited as it rang and rang. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. He was fairly certain Feuilly should be done for the day by now. There was no answer. 

+

Feuilly liked his new job. It contrasted sharply with his apprenticeship as there was less pressure, less expectation and, most crucially for February and March, it was indoors. 

Feuilly liked outdoors. He liked outdoors a lot. He loved the smell of the earth and the damp grass and the frosty air. He loved the way the sun hung low in the mornings, the way the air blew from his lungs in clouds as though he was a dragon rather than a man. He loved the way the crocuses and snowdrops were already creeping out of the ground.

He appreciated the necessity of the rain. But that did not make it any more pleasant to work in. There were days where he would go home to his studio flat soaked to the bone, feeling as though he would never be dry again. There were the mornings after when he would have to put his still-damp work trousers on, never mind wedge his feet into his sodden shoes.

It was a pleasant change to go to the cosy florist shop, surrounded by colour and scent and warmth. It brought a smile to his face to chat easily with Jehan. There wasn’t a lot of chatting involved at Chiswick House.

With Jehan it was effortless. They had already fallen into an easy routine. They tossed a coin to see who got to do the funeral wreaths while they took it in turns to deal with the bridezillas. Feuilly had a good eye for matching colours. Jehan had a talent for the language of flowers. Together they were a great team and Feuilly looked forward to his hours there.

+

Finally, Feuilly answered his phone.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Bahorel greeted him in typical fashion.

“Hello to you, too, arsehole,” Feuilly chuckled, his amusement evident. It sounded as though he was somewhere loud. “I’ve been where I’ve always been. Work. What can I do you for?”

“Feuilly, are you drunk?” Bahorel tried to think if he’d ever witnessed Feuilly drunk before without also being drunk at the same time. He was fairly certain that they had only ever been drunk together. There was a cackle of laughter and then some muffled talking as though Feuilly was sharing a joke with someone and then he was back on the line.

“Not quite. I’m at a poetry reading. Apparently it’s bad form to get too fucked at a poetry reading.”

Ok this was new. Since when had Feuilly been into poetry?

“Oh,” Because that was the most eloquent thing Bahorel could come up with at that moment. There was something of a pause as he listened to the background noise coming down the phone. For a poetry reading it was extraordinarily loud.

“Just wondered if you wanted to go for a drink. Haven’t seen you for a fucking age,” Bahorel tried not to sound too sulky about it. 

“Can’t tonight, mate. Sorry. I’m out with Jehan at this –”

“Poetry reading. Yeah you said,” Bahorel responded gruffly, not even attempting to pretend about the sulkiness anymore.

“Who the fuck’s Jehan anyway?” 

He filed through his memory banks trying to remember if Feuilly had mentioned a new boyfriend or girlfriend at all. He knew that Marek had long since outstayed his welcome some time back in November and that there had been a quick hook up with a girl just before Christmas that hadn’t quite lasted until the New Year at which point Feuilly had sworn off relationships as being too expensive, something that had made Bahorel cry with laughter.

“Guy from work.” Well that was the most helpful response ever. Bahorel rolled his eyes.

“Which work, fuckface? House or Garden?”

“Garden. He works in the florists with me.”

Bahorel drummed his fingers on the counter. There was really nothing more to add to this conversation. Feuilly was busy out getting drunk with a work colleague at a poetry reading of all things. He cleared his throat.

“Ok cool. Another time, maybe. Have fun and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Feuilly laughed again.

“Yeah, cheers!” And just like that the call was over. Bahorel stared at the screen for a moment, briefly considering whether or not he still wanted to go out. He threw his phone down on the side and went to knock on Courfeyrac’s door.

+

“Everything ok?” Jehan smiled sweetly at Feuilly, handing him a glass of wine. Feuilly wasn’t normally a wine drinker. He preferred pints because if you were going to spend nearly £4 on a drink he wanted a little bit more than 250ml. 

However, choices here were a little bit limited. Considering that Jehan was clutching a Jasmine tea he felt he should be grateful that what he was drinking actually had a percentage.

“Yeah, just Bahorel. He wanted to know where I was.” He stared down at his phone with a puzzled expression and managed to miss the small shadow that passed over Jehan’s face. 

+

“Hey fuckface!” Bahorel yelled jubilantly down the phone when Feuilly answered after the third ring. It was Wednesday and Wednesday meant £1 shots at the Student Union. Bahorel also happened to know that Feuilly didn’t need to be at the House until ten o’clock on Thursday morning. It was perfect.

“Fancy a drink or three tonight? It’s £1 shot night.” He was so expecting Feuilly to say yes. There was a sharp intake of breath and a hiss from the other end of the phone.

“Can’t tonight, mate. Sorry.” Feuilly did sound sorry, it was true, but that didn’t make the disappointment any less bitter.

“Oh. Can I ask what could possibly be a better offer than cheap alcohol and awesome company?” Bahorel tried to keep it light and casual.

“Actually I’m going to see ‘Hamlet’. Jehan managed to get some really good tickets.” Jehan again. There was a surprise. Bahorel resisted the temptation to say something biting, taking a deep breath.

“Oh well, another time then.”

+

It was Friday. Bahorel didn’t have a lecture until three o’clock in the afternoon on a Friday. Usually he spent the morning in the gym or sleeping off his Thursday night hangover. But today found him travelling on the Tube to Covent Garden, timed to arrive just before midday.

Covent Garden, even in March, was a hub of activity. As he made his way across the square he didn’t pay that much attention to the street performers, although the sound of the singer from inside the old vegetable market floated out to him, filling the air.

He spotted the florist shop easily, tucked away under the arches. A small bell tinkled as he entered and a young guy with bright green eyes and strawberry blonde hair looked up from the counter. 

“Can I help you at all?” It was a soft, almost lazy voice and Bahorel was struck with the impression that those green eyes were surveying him, analysing him, almost judging him.

“Er, is Feuilly here?” He felt a bit awkward, wedged in that tiny shop. This was obviously the infamous Jehan. He was surprised at the change of expression in this young man’s face. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was a relaxed look, a positive look that made him feel warm in his cheeks.

“Ah. You must be Bahorel.” Bahorel nearly took a step back when this almost ethereal being moved round the counter, advancing upon him with his hand extended in a welcoming gesture. He accepted the outstretched hand and shook it. 

“It’s so lovely to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

+

Jehan didn’t have many friends. University was supposed to be a fresh start. He had so many plans for his life. He was going to meet some amazing people. He was going to join the LGBT Society and meet like-minded friends. He would be able to be himself fully for the first time in his life. He wouldn’t have to worry about people spitting at him, shouting at him in the corridor or pulling his hair.

He would be able to study what he wanted with others who enjoyed the same works of literature, the same authors and playwrights. University had held so much promise but had delivered so little.

On the Freshers Week pub crawl he had gotten into something of a political disagreement with one of the people on the LGBT committee about the subject of the role of allies in the Society and hadn’t found the courage or the inclination to go back. His classes for the first year were set and so he found himself having to study Critical Theory and Chaucer. He’d had enough of Chaucer through his A Levels without going over it again.

But the worst, the very worst thing about University thus far was the people he shared his Halls of Residence flat with. He daren’t store anything in the kitchen as everything that wasn’t locked in his room was systematically destroyed. Normally he ignored people who shouted at him, called him fag or rent boy; hardly the most original terms of abuse he’d ever heard. But hearing nothing but jeers and insults every day for six months was enough to wear anybody down. 

Getting the job at the Florists had been a welcome reprieve from it all. He threw himself into his job, immersing himself in the flowers and plants. He appreciated the sadness of the wreaths he constructed for the funerals; every heartfelt message for a lost loved one. He put his heart and soul into each one, knowing the importance of this small service he performed for the grieving family left behind.

He tolerated with a closed and professional air the demanding brides with their mothers and bridesmaids and future mothers-in-law. He stood by silently, reciting Keats or Byron in his head while they talked of colour schemes and taffeta and what the latest celebrity had used in their most recent wedding. Very occasionally, some of these people listened to his suggestions and appreciated his knowledge of floriography.

When Feuilly had shuffled into the shop, enquiring about the position, Jehan had found himself drawn to this rusty-haired youth covered with freckles. When he asked Feuilly to accompany him to a poetry reading he had been surprised and pleased when Feuilly had agreed.

They had chatted together about many things. Jehan had told him about his flatmates. He felt a kinship with Feuilly when the other man explained he had been through a similar thing. Feuilly had confided to him about his own upbringing in the foster system. 

A very pleasant hour had been passed discussing best and worst customers, Jehan relating some of the horror stories from the florist shop, involving a bridal colour scheme of purple and orange and a mother-of-the-groom who kept phoning the shop to change the button holes, right up to the day before the wedding. Feuilly had told him about being an elf for the Christmas display. And that was how Jehan first heard about Bahorel.

Bahorel had come up in conversation later that evening just after the first performance. He had been in the queue for drinks when he spotted Feuilly crossing the room, his phone pressed to his ear. When he re-joined him, it was just as the call was terminated. He took in the slightly hunched shoulders, the puzzlement of the eyes and the chewed lower lip. And the name.

“Just Bahorel. He wanted to know where I was.”

Jehan’s heart had sunk just a little bit.

Bahorel had come up a fair bit after that. Once he had elbowed in on an evening it seemed impossible to get rid of him.

The night of the play, Jehan had invited Feuilly out for dinner before the performance. He spent most of the meal hearing about the trip to Normandy, how it had been Bahorel’s idea. He heard how Bahorel had helped him move into his flat, and then out of it and down to London. Feuilly talked about Bahorel teaching him how to fight down at the gym. They even spoke about the infamous eighteenth birthday night out.

Jehan was pleasant about it and took the hint. Feuilly had a boyfriend. It was understandable really and Bahorel was a lucky guy. He still felt immensely fond of Feuilly, irrespective of his relationship status. It was a welcome change to have a positive conversation and a quiet drink with someone and he was glad to be able to count Feuilly as a friend.

He was curious about this Bahorel, though; this man that Feuilly so obviously adored. He looked forward to meeting him.

+

Feuilly stepped out of the back room into the shop. He had heard the familiar tones of Bahorel’s voice and was pleased to see him there. Jehan didn’t miss how his face lit up at what was obviously a surprise visit. He cast a quick glance back at Bahorel and was rewarded to see a similar smile on the other man’s face.

“Just wondered if you wanted to get some lunch?” Bahorel offered gruffly, restraining his language for once. Feuilly looked over to Jehan. He wasn’t scheduled to go on lunch until two o’clock. Jehan gave him one of his extremely rare and serene smiles.

“Go when you like, darling, I don’t mind.” Feuilly flashed him a grin of gratitude before shooting out back to grab his coat. Five seconds later he was back in the shop, edging towards the door. Jehan waved them both out with a nod.

They sat on the steps. Feuilly hopefully patted down his pockets, looking for a non-existent packet of cigarettes, before Bahorel took two of his own, popping them both into his mouth, lighting them and then passing one over.

“Cheers,” Feuilly accepted it gratefully. He then let out a low chuckle.

“Sharing a smoke on a lunch break; we haven’t done this in a while!” Bahorel returned his grin.

“Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been around. There’s been a lot going on with work and that.” Bahorel nodded, not saying anything as he drew deeply on his cigarette before exhaling slowly into the early spring air.

“Plus I know you have your Uni mates. I don’t want to intrude.” He looked purposefully at the ground. As much as he was grateful to Bahorel for including him so much, he knew he wasn’t a student, could never be a student, and that he didn’t really belong in the Union bar or on the student nights out. Bahorel sniffed in disapproval.

“Fuck that, mate, they’re your friends too.” He stubbed the cigarette out somewhat viciously against the pavement. “Enjolras is always asking where you are and Courf thinks you’re brilliant.” Feuilly smiled at the pavement. Bahorel sighed, moving to stand up.

“Why don’t you bring Jehan along? Seems like a nice enough guy. Would be good to get to know him.”

+

Jehan arranged his face into a neutral and positive expression when Feuilly returned from his lunch break.

“Have a nice lunch?” He enquired politely, scribbling purposefully in the appointments book. Feuilly shrugged.

“Yeah, was cool. We haven’t seen each other in a while. He’s had exams.” Jehan nodded in sympathy.

“I suppose it must be hard to have a boyfriend at Uni while you’re working two jobs. Must make it difficult to find time together.” Feuilly froze, his eyes widening.

“What?” Feuilly made a slightly strangled sound and Jehan wondered what he’d said to make him go such a funny colour.

“Well, I think I remember you saying he was studying for a Law degree? That must take up an awful lot of time…” Feuilly shook his head, interrupting him.

“No, I mean. Bahorel’s not my boyfriend.”

Silence settled in the little shop. 

“Oh,” Jehan said lightly.

+

Feuilly ran a hand through his hair, trying to get a grip on the situation. Jehan thought that he and Bahorel were in a relationship. Where the fuck had he got such an impression from? Bahorel had only been in the shop for five seconds and he had hardly said a word. Which means it must have come from himself. Somehow Feuilly had projected his feelings for Bahorel in such a way to make Jehan think they were a couple. That was bad, that was very, very bad.

“Hey, it’s ok. I’m sorry.” Jehan was suddenly there, reaching forward to lay a reassuring hand on his arm. “I obviously got the wrong idea.” 

His voice was full of concern, his green eyes piercing him as though trying to reach the very depths of his mind.

“You spoke about him so passionately the other night, and when you saw him at the shop… I obviously misread the situation.” Poor Jehan sounded stricken and it was that note of panic that brought Feuilly back into the room.

“No, it’s ok,” he said at last, managing a shaky smile. Then, with a deep breath, he explained in as few words as possible how much of a crush he had on his best mate. His straight best mate.

“Oh my poor darling,” Jehan gently folded Feuilly into a hug, reaching forward to press a kiss to his forehead.

Then an uncomfortable thought struck Feuilly and he furrowed his brow.

“Oh, Jehan,” he whispered, suddenly unsure, a knotting sensation twisting in his stomach. “Did you… was that…” He stumbled, trying to find the right words. Jehan flushed, sensing the question that was coming.

“Did you ask me on a date? The play, and the poetry. Were they dates?” He rubbed a hand over his dry mouth, dreading the answer. Jehan made a face and Feuilly groaned, pulling back slightly.

“You must think I’m the biggest arsehole,” he muttered through his fingers. Jehan let out a musical laugh.

“Not at all, darling. Maybe I should have been a little clearer with my intentions.” Feuilly smiled gratefully but his ears still burned red with embarrassment.

“Anyway,” Jehan smiled, stepping back out of Feuilly’s personal space as they both remembered they were at work and the door to the shop was definitely not locked. “I don’t think we should complicate our friendship any further with talk of ‘dates’ – agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Feuilly, but with a hint of regret. Jehan leant his head to one side, considering.

“But would you mind awfully if I kissed you?”

+

“Yes, mate?” Feuilly answered his phone cheerfully. It was infectious and Bahorel couldn’t help but grin stupidly down the phone.

“It’s Wednesday, my friend. You in?”

“Sure!” He agreed, readily. The idea was more than appealing.

Things were good for Feuilly right now. His apprenticeship was going well and he was enjoying his job at the florist. Things with Jehan were nice, if strictly on an informal basis. They had kissed, been out together a few times, but nothing more as neither one of them was in the mood for anything serious. The man was extremely tactile, bestowing his kisses readily and generously. Feuilly was more than happy to reciprocate. 

“You can bring Jehan, if you like?” Bahorel continued, making good on his previous invitation. Feuilly smiled appreciatively, even if Bahorel wasn’t there to witness it.

“Yeah, will do. See you later.” Both men hung up the phone satisfied.

+

Of course, Jehan slotted in neatly to the little group. When they both turned up, only Bahorel and Combeferre were sitting at the table, waiting for the others to arrive. Combeferre had smiled and shaken hands with Jehan, quickly falling into conversation. Joly and Bossuet had arrived next and finally Courfeyrac arrived, enjoying the attention his late entrance garnered.

“You’re not the last, you know. You’ve been upstaged by Enjolras,” Bahorel teased him. Courf pretended to pout, before turning his sparkling eyes onto Jehan. 

Feuilly felt something tighten in his jaw at the look on Courf’s face as he stepped forward, reaching out to take the young man’s hand, dramatically lifting it to his lips to bestow it with a kiss. Jehan flushed pink.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” he smiled before Bahorel growled at him.

“What? I was just saying ‘hello’” He winked at Jehan before turning to take his seat.

Conversation quickly took off, most of it surrounding Jehan; asking all the usual questions about his studies and how he had met Feuilly. Jehan quickly relaxed into the group and Feuilly smiled with gratification. He knew Jehan had previously found it difficult to make friends. His eyes wandered over to Bahorel who was deep in conversation with Courfeyrac about something.

Just then, the attention of the entire table was caught by a soft moan of despair from Combeferre.

"Oh no,"

Conversation ceased as everyone's eyes followed Combeferre's directed frown. Enjolras stood at the bar, patiently waiting his turn. To his left, a pretty brunette had evidently just attempted to strike up a conversation with him. Courfeyrac snorted.

"Oh this is going to be good!"

Jehan looked to Feuilly quizzically but the redhead shrugged, a wry smile on his face. He'd heard the stories, of course, but he'd never actually witnessed anyone foolhardy enough to try it on with Enjolras.

Instantly the whispering started.

"£10 on him using his 'I do not enjoy being harassed' speech." Courf's eyes were lit up with a twinkle.

"No, no. The 'wasting my time and yours' one, definitely," countered Bahorel.

"It's not right, you know. What if she has anxiety?" Joly fretted.

“If she doesn't now, she will have by the time he's finished.” Bossuet muttered darkly.

"Oh no you don't!" Both Bahorel and Courf moved at the same time to return Combeferre back to his seat.

"Don't you interfere or all bets are off."

Just then the girl leaned forward to press a hand on Enjolras's arm. The entire table held its breath.

Enjolras looked down at the hand, frowning. Combeferre squirmed in his seat.

"Seriously guys..."

"Stay put." Bahorel instructed, eyes trained on the events unfurling before him. Feuilly tutted, shaking his head.

Enjolras removed the hand from his arm, eyes flashing. From across the bar they could hear clearly as he began to lecture her on wasting his time and Bahorel whooped with glee.

"Now you can go," he immediately moved so Combeferre could squeeze past.

"For god's sake, try not to look too smug. You know he hates it when you bet on him." 

With that final piece of advice Combeferre strode purposefully towards the bar where Enjolras was continuing to lecture the poor girl who was now bright pink in the face and on the verge of tears.

Jehan cocked his head to one side.

"I can't tell; is Combeferre in love with Enjolras or what?"

Courf snorted.

"Nope. Guy is as straight as a Roman road. He's more like Enjolras's emotional compass. Keeps trying to introduce him to the concept of 'letting people down gently'."

"Without much success," Bossuet agreed. Just then the girl at the bar made a break for freedom, bolting towards the exit.

Courf stood up at that moment.

"Anyway, kiddlywinks - that's my cue." And with that he moved smoothly across the bar in the direction taken by the poor brunette, his intentions obvious. Jehan frowned at his retreating figure. Feuilly rolled his eyes before turning his attention to Bahorel. 

"Right. Next round's yours I believe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is taken from "Bluebeard's Egg" by Margaret Atwood.
> 
> Critical Theory - ugh. Yes I'm sure it's extremely helpful and relevant but it was totally not my cup of tea. I didn't see why I was being forced to study philosophy as part of an English and History degree. My tutor was obsessed with existentialism and whether or not there was a chair in the room. I don't think they were very impressed with me when I pointed out that we knew there was a chair in the room because if I hit someone with it they would say "what the hell did you hit me with that chair for?".
> 
> Just to clarify, House is Chiswick House and Garden is Covent Garden :)


	8. These Children That You Spit On As They Try To Change Their Worlds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bahorel frowned at the passage he was reading for his Legal Methods and Systems seminar. He had read through the first sentence at least four times and he was no closer to translating it into something legible than he had been ten minutes ago."
> 
> Bahorel is struggling and there are important changes afoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for homophobia and homophobic language

Bahorel frowned at the passage he was reading for his Legal Methods and Systems seminar. He had read through the first sentence at least four times and he was no closer to translating it into something legible than he had been ten minutes ago.

He sighed, distractedly, moving on to the other source they were expected to have read before tomorrow’s class in the hope that it might prove more palatable. He gave up after another fifteen minutes of getting precisely nowhere, snapping his book shut with frustration. The sound echoed around the library reading room and one of his fellow students tutted pointedly at him. Quickly, he gathered his stuff together, shoving it into his bag before making his way down the stairs.

His phone buzzed as he exited the building. It was Courfeyrac inviting him for a drink in the Union. He changed direction, heading away from the bus stop back towards the centre of the campus towards the SU building.

As he walked through the doors, he spotted Courf who was just setting down a round of drinks in front of Joly, Bossuet and Marius. Combeferre and Enjolras were sitting at the next table, heads together and deep in discussion. He quickly ordered a pint from the bar before making his way over to their tables. He slid into the seat next to Courfeyrac, nodding a greeting.

“Everything ok, mate? You look a bit stressed.” Courf’s forehead crinkled into a light look of concern. Bahorel shrugged, not really in the mood to talk about it.

“Stupid text for Mason’s seminar tomorrow,” he said flatly and Courf nodded in sympathy, before turning to Bossuet and clapping the guy on the back.

“Well, at least one person here doesn’t have to worry about that anymore. Eh, Boss?” He grinned and Bossuet flushed pink but smiled nonetheless. 

“I’m not doing Law anymore,” he said shyly. “It wasn’t working out really, so I’m switching to History full time. All I have to do is get at 42% on my last two papers and then I can start without penalty next semester.”

Bahorel didn’t know what to say. He knew Bossuet had struggled with the Law part of his Combined Honours degree but it had never occurred to him that he would actually change his course. He stared dumbly at Bossuet, unable to actually say anything. In the end, Joly broke the increasingly awkward silence.

“Well I think it’s the best thing you could possibly do,” he said, patting his boyfriend’s hand. “You weren’t happy studying Law and it’s better that you realise it now while you can still doing something about it than getting to the end of your course and finishing with a degree you don’t want to use.”

Joly’s words echoed round Bahorel’s brain like an unwelcome alarm.

+

Feuilly had just stumbled out of the shower when someone knocked at his door. He checked his phone as he crossed the room; usually Jehan sent a text to say he was on his way over. His phone, however, had no missed calls or messages.

He was surprised to see Bahorel standing outside his door. He greeted him cheerfully, opening the door wide and waving him in. He moved to clear a space on the bed so the guy could sit down before offering him a drink. Bahorel shook his head. 

Feuilly frowned. Something was up. Bahorel seemed distracted, unfocused, which was extremely rare. The guy was so usually full of noise but not today. Today he was picking at his hands, huffing his breath. Feuilly decided to get himself a drink at the very least, if only to give Bahorel a few minutes to sort himself out. 

“What’s up?” He said at last, climbing up on the bed and sitting cross legged, facing his distracted companion. Bahorel reached up to run his fingers through the stubble of his undercut, letting out a long, frustrated breath.

“I want to drop out of Uni.”

+

Bahorel looked at Feuilly to see how his words had been received. If there was one person whose opinion he valued it was the scrawny ginger bloke sitting in front of him.

He had been thinking about this all afternoon. He had gone back to his room where he had put on some loud angry metal music, primarily to drown out the sound of Courfeyrac entertaining someone in the next room, but also to drown out his own thoughts. Then he had gone out to the gym to pound some punch bags for an hour or so, before finishing with a shower that was so hot it was almost too hot, his ruddy brown skin taking on a slightly pinkish hue.

He had returned to his room where Courf had invited him out for a drink, an offer he had declined and then regretted because it meant he was simply sitting alone in his room going out of his mind.

So he had grabbed his keys and wallet and headed for the nearest bus stop. It was quite a long trip to Feuilly’s flat but he wanted a proper talk, face to face. This wasn’t a conversation he could have on the phone.

Because it was Feuilly, he didn’t do anything melodramatic such as pause with the beer bottle half way to his mouth, or pretend to choke on its contents. He didn’t shout at him, asking if he had completely lost his senses. He just considered for a moment, his head on one side, formulating his response.

+

“Can I ask what brought this on?”

Feuilly knew Bahorel. He knew the guy would never be flippant about something like this, especially not to him. He could tell his mate was at breaking point by the hunch of his shoulders, the way he held himself, a simmering energy just under his skin. The guy was in distress, in conflict with himself. He needed to hear him out, to understand where he was coming from. 

Once had that information, then he could tell the guy just what kind of ridiculous mistake he was making.

Bahorel sighed, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Bossuet has decided to switch to History full time. He’s not doing Law anymore.” He told Feuilly about the conversation with the guys in the Union bar, about what Joly had said.

“I mean, I find it difficult but it was ok because Bossuet was there and he found it tough too and at least when there were two of us it wasn’t just me alone, you know?” he growled in frustration. 

“Now the bastard has abandoned me to go and study… I don’t even know what he’s studying. The Civil War or the French Revolution or something like that. Fuck knows!” His voice had risen without him being fully aware of it and now he was on his feet, pacing up and down in frustration. Feuilly scratched the back of his head, considering.

“What would you study instead?” He asked quietly. Bahorel rounded on him, eyes blazing.

“I don’t fucking know!” He was nearly shouting now but Feuilly didn’t even flinch, he just stared back levelly at Bahorel’s angry glare. “I mean, it’s not as though I’m good for anything else. I like boxing and fitness but not enough to study Sports Science. I don’t have the patience for Humanities and I don’t have the A Levels for Sciences. And nothing on this planet could induce me to become a teacher.”

He resumed his pacing. Feuilly took another sip of beer, giving Bahorel some time to calm down. He’d obviously been thinking, no _stewing_ on this all afternoon.

“I suppose I like politics. I could possibly do politics. Do they do degrees in politics?” He flopped back down on the bed, letting out a pitiful whine from behind his hands.

“I know you think I’m an arsehole. I know you’d give your right arm to swap places with me and go to Uni. That’s why I need you to kick my arse, mate. Just tell me I’m being a prick and I’ll be on my way.”

Feuilly set his drink down with a sigh.

“I don’t think you’re being a prick. I think you’re frustrated and pissed off and that’s fine. I know this isn’t easy for you.” Bahorel didn’t make any kind of response to that. He remained lying half on the bed, his face covered.

“However,” Feuilly continued, “I think you should talk to someone else on your course. What about Enjolras?” Bahorel moved one hand to look quizzically at Feuilly. 

“What about him?” he asked suspiciously, wondering where this was going.

“The guy seems pretty focused on his course. You said yourself, he apparently spends his life in the Library. Why don’t you ask him for some help? I’m sure he’d be happy to come up with some sort of study plan to help you out.”

Bahorel looked up at him, apparently pondering the suggestion. 

“It’s still early in your course. We’re only a week into April. If you’re still not sure after a month or so of working with Enjolras then maybe there’s a tutor or someone you can talk to about changing courses. But right now, I think you’ll regret it if you go out without a fight.” He smiled at Bahorel, knowing damn well that now he had turned it into a pugilistic metaphor there was no way the man would back out without at least giving his idea a go.

Bahorel nodded.

“Ok. I’ll talk to Enjolras.”

+

Enjolras and Combeferre were in deep discussion as Bahorel approached them in the Square. Combeferre had a concerned, if slightly defeated look on his face, while Enjolras was pale yet determined, his cheeks pinched and his eyes sharp.

“I just wondered if you’d heard from him, considering what day it is…” he heard Combeferre mutter, only for Enjolras to close his eyes before actually snapping a fierce response.

“I said I’m fine!” Bahorel raised his eyebrows. He had never seen Enjolras raise his voice to Combeferre before. Those guys were tighter than a boy scout’s knot.

He coughed, cautiously, announcing his presence. Combeferre managed a sincere smile but Enjolras’s stressed expression didn’t change.

“If this is a bad time…” he started but Combeferre stood up, shaking his head.

“I have a lecture in half an hour so I need to get going.” His eyes flashed over to Enjolras who was still frowning. “See you later.” Enjolras shrugged his shoulders but Combeferre didn’t wait for any further response, setting off in the direction of the Humanities building.

Enjolras watched him go with a peculiar pained expression on his face. Bahorel felt like he was missing out on some really important detail here but before he could vocalise his discomfort the expression had gone and Enjolras was looking at him with clear, untroubled eyes.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, his expression open and calm. Bahorel suddenly remembered why he was there in the first place.

“I wanted to ask for your help. I’m not doing so well in my classes and Feuilly suggested that I talk to you before dropping out.” He feigned nonchalance, shrugging his shoulders. Enjolras’s eyes widened.

“You’re thinking of dropping out?” He seemed appalled at the very idea.

“Yeah. Bossuet changing over to History got me thinking. And Joly has a point about finishing a degree, all that time and debt, only to get to the end and find out it’s not what you really want.” He didn’t really want to go through all this again and Enjolras seemed to sense that, pursing his lips as he considered a response.

“Well, I can help you with the technical side, of course. But as to whether you want to continue with your degree, only you can decide that.” Bahorel pulled a face. After his chat with Feuilly he knew he definitely wouldn’t be dropping out, not now. But he still felt unsettled and unsure and there was no point pretending otherwise.

“Why don’t we set up a study session twice a week and see how we get on?” Bahorel coughed, his eyes widening.

“Twice a week?” He thought about two extra study sessions in addition to the lectures, seminars and tutorials he already attended. Enjolras seemed to consider for a moment.

“Well, just to start with. We can always increase the frequency if two meetings aren’t sufficient.” Bahorel clamped his mouth shut, forcing his head to nod in agreement, even if Enjolras had completely misinterpreted his splutterings. In all honesty he could do with the help, and maybe some of Enjolras’s passion might rub off on him. Maybe it might make him learn to love this fucking degree he was doing.

+

Bahorel wasn’t the only person undergoing a University-related crisis of confidence. As April progressed towards May, Feuilly found himself playing host to Jehan more and more often.

It had started with a phone call about a week before Bahorel’s visit. Feuilly had been at Chiswick House since half past seven that morning and he was aching and tired and just wanted to go to sleep. His first instinct had been to ignore the buzzing of his phone but upon seeing that it was Jehan that was calling and knowing that Jehan hardly ever called anyone, preferring the conciseness of text messages, he answered with a surprised greeting.

Jehan hadn’t been able to speak at first, his breaths coming raggedly through the line. Eventually he had managed to ask if Feuilly minded awfully if he popped over. Despite his choice of words and attempt at a light-hearted tone, Feuilly could tell the man was considerably distressed. Without hesitation he had confirmed that it would be more than fine, which was just as well as Jehan was actually standing outside his building.

“I’m so sorry, I just didn’t have anywhere else to go,” he whimpered as he came through the door. His hair, normally rolled up into a neat bun, hung messily down his back. He was pale and obviously trying to keep his emotions in check.

Feuilly had set about wrapping him up in a blanket and making him some tea. He knew Jehan must be upset because he accepted the mug of Tetley without comment.

“My flatmates broke into my room again.” He sighed. Then, seeing Feuilly’s face he added “Nothing is missing. It’s more what they added.” He whispered, ruefully, shuddering at the memory of the dead rabbit left on his bed.

“I’m assuming it was roadkill,” he said quietly. Feuilly gathered him into his arms. Jehan was quiet but he could feel the man shaking against him, though whether it was fear or anger he couldn’t be sure.

“Stay here tonight,” he insisted. “I’m up at the arse-crack of dawn, but I’d still rather that than have you going back there. Tomorrow we can go and sort your room out after I’ve finished work. I’m only there til three o’clock.”

“Thank you,” Jehan whispered into his shoulder.

That was the first of many nights with Jehan tucked into his side, his steady warmth and presence surprisingly easy to adapt to. He didn’t seem to mind Feuilly’s early starts and was even amenable to making the man coffee while he showered so he wasn’t late.

Feuilly had been as good as his word, going back to Jehan’s flat to help sort out the room. He took a good look at the lock on the door. It was a cheap lock, typical of the student building and far too easy to pick. He briefly considered going to a DIY store and buying a padlock to add to it, wondering how much trouble Jehan would get into for screwing extra holes into the woodwork. In the end he left it, knowing that any additional security would only attract attention. The perpetrators would see it as a challenge not a deterrent. 

+

Jehan had to admit, he slept better in Feuilly’s bed than he ever had in the Halls of Residence. Feuilly had a unique scent that was ridiculously pleasant and soporific. It was a heady mix of grass, plants, leaves and bonfires. It was the scent of life and Jehan valued it, snuggling into the duvet even after Feuilly had left for the day. At night he would curl up into Feuilly’s side, anchoring himself to that man.

Of course, he couldn’t spend every night at Feuilly’s flat. He appreciated that Feuilly worked hard and he didn’t wish to intrude on his kind hospitality.

He tried to bear the increasingly bizarre incidents in his Halls. The insults and verbal attacks he could ignore, no problem. After the dead rabbit incident, no one had attempted to break into his room again, for which he was quite grateful. But then, in the first week of May, he returned home to find his door open and his room wrecked. 

The contents of his shelf of the freezer had been dumped on the floor and then covered in what appeared to be pink spray paint. In fact, there was pink spray paint everywhere; all over his clothes, books and bed sheets. He called Feuilly in tears.

As it happened, Feuilly was in the pub with Bahorel, catching up on how he was getting on in his tuition sessions with Enjolras. Bahorel had been chewing his ear off for twenty minutes by this point and Feuilly was trying desperately to put on an interested face but he was secretly very grateful when his phone began to buzz angrily in his pocket.

He couldn’t quite make out what his friend was saying but he understood enough that Jehan was crying – actually crying – down the phone at him. He motioned to Bahorel to finish his drink pronto because they were needed elsewhere. On their way out of the pub they collided with Courfeyrac and Enjolras who were on their way in to join them and Feuilly invited them along as well. The more the merrier. Jehan was getting out of that place tonight and that was final.

Feuilly knew Bahorel cut a scary figure, and anyone without the sense to back away when Enjolras was on the warpath deserved everything that was coming to them. Jehan was surprised but pleased to see them all as he met them outside.

“Come on, you,” Feuilly murmured as he pulled the guy into a tight hug. “No more tears spent on these fuckers. We’ll pack all these things and you can come and live with me.”

“I can’t do that,” Jehan whispered, shaking his head. “There isn’t the room. Besides, I’ll just be in the way.”

But Feuilly’s mind was fixed. There was no way Jehan could spend another night in this place. It was obvious that the incidents were escalating. He didn’t want to think about what might happen next. Jehan needed to be out of there now. They’d make it work, somehow.

They picked their way up the stairs to the flat and into Jehan’s room.

“Fuck me!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, first to enter the room. He stared around in shock at the mindless destruction that surrounded him. The others filed in behind.

“Don’t you have any staff or anything? Someone you can report these people to?” Enjolras demanded, absolutely appalled at the state of Jehan’s room. They started picking things out and putting them into bags. Jehan motioned to the graffiti on the outside of his door. Someone had carved the word “fag” into the wood at the top.

“They did that after the first time I reported them,” he said. “I’m apparently on the waiting list for a transfer. Have been for the past seven months.” Bahorel growled in disapproval.

“Well now you don’t have to worry about it,” Feuilly said pointedly. “You can stay with me as long as you like.” He held up his hand to stave off a fresh round of protests.

“Don’t worry about it tonight. We can talk about it properly tomorrow. But for now, let’s just gather your stuff and get the hell out of here.”

Jehan smiled for the first time all evening, looking around at the group of friends, his friends, standing in his room. It was overwhelming really. It took moments like this, he realised, to see how truly lucky he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title has been appropriated from David Bowie's "Changes".
> 
> Poor Jehan!   
> I'm sorry to say I had my stuff messed with at Uni - not to the scale of poor Jean Prouvaire here, but it still wasn't pleasant, wondering what the hell you were going home to.


	9. Life Is The Flower For Which Love Is The Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This was becoming something of a routine now; Enjolras in charge, Courf and Bahorel cheerfully doing the heavy lifting and Marius overseeing the boxes leaving the flat. Bossuet, once again, was left in charge of the van while Feuilly, Jehan, Joly and Combeferre did everything else in between. They had even managed to get a discount on renting the van, thanks to the guy remembering Enjolras and Bahorel from last time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> erm... slight warning for drunken sex? All consensual but I know some peeps don't like it so yus... drunken sex.

This was becoming something of a routine now; Enjolras in charge, Courf and Bahorel cheerfully doing the heavy lifting and Marius overseeing the boxes leaving the flat. Bossuet, once again, was left in charge of the van while Feuilly, Jehan, Joly and Combeferre did everything else in between. They had even managed to get a discount on renting the van, thanks to the guy remembering Enjolras and Bahorel from last time.

The new flat that Jehan had found was over in North West London, in a much nicer area than Feuilly’s previous studio flat. Somehow Jehan had managed to work some magic because the flat was huge. There were three bedrooms, a spacious living room with open kitchen area, a little balcony and, best of all, a bathroom with a bath.

When Feuilly had enquired as to why there was a third bedroom, Jehan had patted his arm, somewhere between reassuring and patronising, before informing him that of course they would need somewhere for the guests to sleep. Feuilly hadn’t been entirely convinced by that argument, but his share of the rent was actually slightly less than he had been shelling out before so he had little to complain about.

House hunting with Jehan had been quite the experience. Feuilly soon found that his new housemate had a very fixed idea of what he wanted and he wasn’t afraid to put the time in to get it. Feuilly was more than happy to take a back seat on this. As long as there was a bed with his name on it and running water then he was good with anything. Plus, he suspected Jehan’s expectations were a hell of a lot higher than his and so trusted the guy’s judgement.

Having an actual bath tub had been something of a dealbreaker for Jehan. They had viewed a number of passable flats in which there had only been a shower room rather than an actual bathroom and Jehan had actually walked out without viewing the rest of the flat.

Feuilly was used to showers. There had only been showers at St Margaret’s and most of the foster houses he had been to had showers rather than baths due to the necessity of space. He preferred showers anyway as they were quicker. He didn’t have the time to be waiting around for tubs to fill and it seemed such a waste to go to all that trouble if you were only going to sit there for ten or fifteen minutes while you washed. No, Feuilly was a shower guy through and through.

Jehan, in the nicest way possible, had pronounced him to be a heathen before promising that he would soon change his tune; Jehan promised to teach him how to enjoy taking a bath. Feuilly thought that sounded a bit sinister and said so. Jehan had simply laughed at him.

Feuilly liked living with Jehan. It hadn’t been as awkward as he had expected. Neither had minded sharing a bed through the warm nights of May. On a couple of occasions they had woken wrapped up together but they had laughed easily about it, neither bothering to blush, before getting on with the rest of their day.

Jehan was a generous and conscientious flatmate. He always made a cup of coffee for Feuilly in the morning, and usually there would be something for dinner when he got home from work. They made the best of the fact that the studio was barely big enough for one person, never mind two, but they were both glad when they found the flat and that they would be able to move in during the first week of June.

They were both extremely grateful to their friends for agreeing to help them move. Jehan had a lot of boxes of books, while Feuilly’s collection of possessions had grown quite considerably in the months he had lived in London. 

Jehan was now fully integrated into the group, spending more time at their SU bar than his own. Feuilly however had noticed that Bahorel seemed to clam up around him and he determined to have a word with him about that at some point, but when his mate was the first to volunteer to sort out the move then he laid his fears to one side.

Once the last box was dropped into the flat they all collapsed into the living room while Joly set about investigating the nearby takeaways and their respective hygiene ratings. Pretty soon they were all tucking into Chinese food. 

Feuilly headed out onto the balcony for a smoke. He had barely flicked the lighter when he heard the door slide behind him and Bahorel joined him. He grinned at his mate, offering him the last one in the packet. They stood in silence together, looking out over the city.

“It’s a nice little flat you got here. A big improvement,” Bahorel complimented. Feuilly shrugged his agreement.

“Jehan found it. I can’t claim any of the credit.” They stood for a moment, smoking in silence. Feuilly liked that about Bahorel; sometimes they didn’t need to say anything at all.

“Lots of space for a house warming party, at any rate,” Bahorel continued with a wicked grin which Feuilly returned. It would be good to host a proper party with all their friends. Feuilly had never thrown a party before.

+

The party had started out well. All the friends had piled in, one after the other, laughing and joking and congratulating Jehan and Feuilly on their new flat. 

They had purposefully chosen a day they knew that everyone would be free. A guided tour had been given before the music was switched on and the beer began to flow.

The place was a lot tidier than it had been on the day they had moved in. Most of the boxes had been unpacked or stored away from prying eyes. Jehan had set about turning the flat from a blank space into their home and Feuilly had essentially let him get on with it.

All along the balcony there were now window boxes with a mixture of Begonias, Fuchsias and Petunias. On the walls hung a couple of Feuilly’s paintings that he had done. Bahorel had admired them when he had come in. There were shelves and shelves of books; Keats, Byron, Shelley, Blake, de Chateaubriand and Coleridge, as well as Shakespeare, Irvine Welsh, Salman Rushdie, some Austen, a few Bronte novels and several anthologies of War Poetry.

The lounge and kitchen area was the main focus of the party, the alcohol all set out for easy selection on the counter separating the two spaces. A couple of camping chairs had been set up so there was space for everyone to sit if they so wished, but mostly people chose to stand, milling about and chatting easily.

At some point Courf had pounced on Jehan’s record collection, pausing the more modern beats and replacing it with the glorious tones of British Dance Band. He grabbed an unsuspecting Marius before leading the poor man around the room in a Swing Dance. 

Feuilly had shot a worried glance at Jehan to see how Courf touching his precious records had been received. Jehan’s face was as cold as steel but at the sight of Feuilly it softened and he offered a reassuring twitch and shake of the head, confirming that he would save the ritual execution of Courfeyrac for another day. Feuilly raised a beer in invitation and Jehan glided gracefully across the room to join them.

“I suppose if I didn’t want them played I would have hidden them in my room,” he said, prising the beer from Feuilly’s hand and taking a generous sip before returning it.

“At least he isn’t taking the piss,” Feuilly offered, reasonably. He knew there was something of a strained atmosphere between Jehan and Courfeyrac but he couldn’t quite place a finger on what it was. Jehan seemed impervious to the other man’s charms. He was pleasant enough in Courf’s presence, and if Feuilly didn’t know any better he would not have thought there was anything amiss. However, he knew Jehan. He knew his flatmate was holding himself back, distancing himself from the blazing ball of energy that was currently dipping a protesting Marius in a most ungainly fashion.

There was a big cry of delight when Joly finally convinced Bossuet to have a go at the Charleston, scrambling to their feet to join Marius and Courf on the makeshift dancefloor while the others clapped and cheered them on.

“Do you dance?” Jehan asked Feuilly, turning away from the spectacle before him. Feuilly, mouth full of beer, shook his head in response.

“Not a chance. Two left feet.” Jehan treated him to a rare smile.

“That is a shame.” He lifted himself away from the counter and crossed the room, apparently to speak to Enjolras, leaving Feuilly to stare after him.

+

Bahorel cast a bored eye about the room. The music was back to whatever thumping beats were on Courfeyrac’s ipod, the lights were low and most people had paired off and retreated to their various corners.

Courf had brought along a couple of “friends” who Bahorel vaguely recognised from their course. One of them was currently straddling Combeferre, his glasses slightly askew as she nipped down his neck; the other two had long since disappeared into the “guest” bedroom with Courfeyrac.

Bahorel had been sitting chatting to Enjolras, purposefully ignoring what was going on behind him, instead focussing on what the blond was telling him about some sort of petition that Enjolras was trying to organise. 

Bahorel and Feuilly had not really had much of a chance to chat that evening and now it looked like any hope of that was long gone. Because right now, out of the corner of his eye, Bahorel was painfully aware of the way Jehan’s hand was pressed to Feuilly’s thigh. He could see how Feuilly was angled on the sofa, the way he oh-so-carelessly clutched his beer bottle, pausing to rest it on his lip before taking a sip. He couldn’t ignore how Jehan leant in to whisper something in Feuilly’s ear.

“I’m going to head off. Can you let Combeferre know? You know, when he… resurfaces.” Enjolras glanced ruefully towards the corner where Combeferre was mostly obscured by the body of the woman on top of him. Bahorel nodded, thinking it was about the time for him to do the same. 

Unfortunately, just as Enjolras left, Marius chose that moment to take up the seat that had so recently been vacated and started to talk to Bahorel in earnest. It took him a few moments over the beat of the drums and the haze of the beer for Bahorel to realise he was being asked about their Criminal Law exam they were due to take next week.

“Pontmercy are you seriously talking shop on a Saturday night?” he asked incredulously, cutting right across whatever Marius was saying. The guy blinked at him in confusion.

“No, I’m not talking about a shop, I’m asking you about our exam,” he said with a perfectly innocent expression, somewhere between confusion and hurt.

Bahorel turned away from Marius, though he wasn’t entirely sure what had caught his attention, what movement in the corner of his eye caused him to turn his head, but he soon found out. 

Jehan was now in Feuilly’s lap, and from the look of it his tongue was firmly down the redhead’s throat. Feuilly, for his part, had both hands on Jehan’s arse, beer bottle long abandoned.

“Oh fuck this,” Bahorel growled, pulling himself to his feet and slamming the door on his way out of the flat, not entirely sure why he was so pissed off in the first place.

+

Feuilly was lost in the sensation of Jehan’s small body pressed against him, his heart hammering loudly in his chest as a curious tongue explored his mouth. He groaned in pleasure against Jehan’s lips.

They had never done anything like this before and in the back of his head Sober Feuilly was already lecturing him on whether or not it was a good idea to sleep with your flatmate. Not that they had slept together; not like that. Not yet, anyway. He wasn’t even entirely sure how it had happened. A space had opened up on the sofa and he had taken it. He hadn’t had that much to drink; he was maybe on his fourth beer and then there were those shots Bossuet and Bahorel had thought would be a good idea for everyone to do. Even Enjolras had done one. No, alcohol couldn’t be blamed for this.

Kissing Jehan wasn’t new. They had shared plenty of lazy kisses both before and after they had become flatmates. That was Jehan’s way. He was extraordinarily tactile and affectionate with all of his friends. Even Joly had permitted a kiss pressed to his forehead in friendship.

But this was nothing, nothing at all, like a kiss in friendship. This was Jehan biting savagely down on his lip - _Jesus_ – the guy was grinding down into his lap, quick nimble fingers running through his hair and _oh fuck_ he was hard. He whimpered under Jehan’s attentions and he swore he heard the guy chuckle darkly.

“You are a darling, you know,” Jehan whispered into his ear. “I want you.” 

Well that went straight to Feuilly’s cock. 

“You can have me,” he murmured, his hands sliding down Jehan’s back, to his arse, causing the smaller man to buck into his hands as lips and teeth grazed down his neck.

“You taste delicious,” Jehan muttered appreciatively as Feuilly rested his head back, giving Jehan greater access to his neck, welcoming his mouth.

“Do you have anything?” Jehan returned to his ear, kissing along the side of Feuilly’s face and temple while he awaited a reply. Feuilly tried to clear his head, to think, not an easy task. When he found the answer somewhere deep inside his brain, it was like pouring cold water on his lap.

“Uh, no,” he groaned. Oh god, that just wasn’t fair. He had Jehan writhing in his lap whispering absolute filth into his ear and all he wanted was to fuck or get fucked and he couldn’t. He was distracted by fingers on his lips. He obediently opened his mouth, taking them in and sucking on them while his eyes looked into Jehan’s steady green ones.

“Never fear, my darling. You go wait in your room. I’ll be there in a moment.” With those final words, Jehan climbed off his lap. Feuilly blinked at him for a moment before getting up and following him. Jehan paused outside his own room, watching Feuilly carefully, looking expectantly at him. Feuilly put a hand on his own bedroom door handle and Jehan smiled at him approvingly. Obviously Feuilly had just passed some sort of test.

As promised, Jehan came in a few moments later clutching a little tube of lube and a condom. He placed them on the side before grabbing Feuilly and throwing him backwards onto the bed. Feuilly gasped. Jehan was so slight and yet he easily manhandled Feuilly into place. He barely had a chance to recover before Jehan was upon him. He pulled insistently at Feuilly’s t-shirt.

“If you have no objections,” he growled quietly in the darkness, dragging the offending garment up and over Feuilly’s head. “I’m going to fuck you.” 

Feuilly had no objections, he had no objections at all. He whined his consent as their kisses grew more impatient, more fevered. His hand moved to Jehan’s waist, to the button of his jeans, making light work of it. Jehan chuckled at Feuilly’s sudden intake of breath as the jeans came down those slender thighs because _holy fuck_. Jehan wasn’t wearing any underwear.

Jehan’s fingers traced down his jaw line, over his stubble, as the man took a moment to stare intently at him. Feuilly swallowed, somewhat nervous under that intense gaze.

“You are so precious,” Jehan said gently, stroking down Feuilly’s neck, almost carelessly, his head on one side as he considered the man before him. “Do you want this?”

There was no uncertainty on Jehan’s face. His gaze was level and his face sincere. In that moment Feuilly understood. They were both on the same page with this. It was a fuck between friends and he was good with that. Nothing complicated, nothing more, nothing that they need think about right now. Tomorrow would be ok.

“Yes,” he whispered, leaning up to capture Jehan’s lips and the moment was broken; the fever returned.

Sweet Lord, Jehan was a tiger in bed. He bit and licked and scratched and kissed in equal measure. Feuilly was sure he would be covered in marks in the morning. He felt Jehan scoot down his body before his boxers were swiftly removed and inquisitive fingers found their way round his cock. He sighed, sinking back against the mattress as Jehan took him in hand. He arched his back up into that touch and Jehan smirked down at him.

He felt the loss as Jehan removed his hands, seeking out the lube. He delivered a gentle slap to Feuilly’s thigh.

“Turn over,” he ordered darkly. Feuilly obeyed, flopping onto his front. This was new territory for him. He’d always been a switch in bed, that wasn’t an issue, but he wasn’t used to being ordered about and obeying orders didn’t come naturally to him. However, here and now, panting into the sheets with Jehan behind him, preparing to fuck him, he was ready to obey any command this terrifying wraith might give him. 

“On your knees,” Jehan clarified. Feuilly groaned, pulling himself up. He waited, breathing hard, trying to steady his heartbeat.

He wasn’t left waiting long. Soon he felt a soft pressure as Jehan massaged gently at his entrance before pressing forward with slicked fingers, twisting carefully but insistently, opening him up. Feuilly keened, pressing back with a whine. 

He hadn’t been taken apart in an age and the pooling heat in his gut was driving him wild. Jehan was going too slowly, far, far too slowly. He wasn’t used to feeling this needy in bed. He was so used to just fucking or being fucked or _whatever_. It was never like this. He was never wanting. But he wanted now, by god he did.

“Fuck, Jehan,” he gasped as a second finger breached him. “Want you in me, want to feel you.” Words spilled out as though beyond his control. He heard a sinister chuckle behind him and a soft kiss placed at the small of his back.

“I can promise you that you will definitely feel me, dear sweet Feuilly. Now hold still and be patient.”

Finally, when Feuilly was chewing a hole in his lip with the sheer frustration of it all, Jehan withdrew his fingers. There was a moment where the only sound that could be heard was the tearing of foil and then Jehan was behind him, long fingers pressed to his hips, holding him firmly in place.

“Jehan,” he whined, wishing the man would just hurry up and fuck him already and then _oh dear god_.

Feuilly would never think of Jehan as a delicate creature ever again. The man was a monster. He had untold reserves of strength and power at his beck and call. It would be terrible error to get on his wrong side. By day he was gentle and poetic, all fluid and ethereal in his movements. But now Feuilly knew better.

The boy could fuck. And fuck he did. He drove forward, mercilessly, sending Feuilly down onto his forearms. Fingernails marked his hips with small crescents and all Feuilly could do was lie beneath him and take him, take _this_ , and he loved it.

“Fuck… please… oh god…” he moaned into the pillow, feeling his own orgasm build within. He felt Jehan lean round, not breaking his pace as he took Feuilly in hand, jerking him in time with his thrusts. With a cry, Feuilly came across his hand, sinking onto his shoulders, so that now only Jehan was holding him up, holding him in place as he continued to fuck into him.

“Oh Feuilly,” he moaned into the darkness. “You’re so gorgeous like this. I’ve wanted you since you wandered into my shop. I wanted to throw you over that counter right there. The way your hair just sits on your forehead, your fucking freckles, so mismatched on your cheeks and nose.”

Feuilly could barely hear him through the haze as Jehan continued to thrust forward, his motions becoming more urgent.

“I wanted to push you to your knees during Hamlet, have you suck me off through the soliloquy,” Feuilly whimpered at the image, his poor cock twitching at the very thought of giving head in a crowded theatre. 

With a final gasp and a shudder, Jehan came. Feuilly let out a small groan as Jehan began to withdraw before they both collapsed down on the bed.

“Fucking hell, Jehan,” he finally managed to say, once his breath had evened out. He rolled over to face the other man who was lying on his back staring at the ceiling.

“Hey, you ok?” He reached out to brush fingers over Jehan’s cheek. It seemed to wake him from some distant daydream, and green eyes blinked across at him as if suddenly realising Feuilly was there for the first time.

“I fucked you,” he said softly. Feuilly nodded, wondering where this was going. He was still half lost in afterglow, his whole body singing with pleasure.

“Yes, you did. It was great. So I say again, are you ok?” He leant up on one elbow now, concern beginning to override all the other happy feelings rushing about his bloodstream. To his intense relief, Jehan smiled.

“Yes. Yes I am.”

+

They slept together that night. Feuilly cleaned up the messy sheet as best he could, before folding Jehan into his arms. They would talk in the morning but right now he was too fucked out for a serious conversation.

When he regained consciousness in the morning he was alone, but the noises outside his bedroom door told him the clean-up had begun in earnest. 

Joly was scrubbing the kitchen, sporting a set of marigolds and a scourer. He nodded approvingly as Feuilly stumbled out in a pair of boxers and the first t-shirt he had grabbed from the floor. Bossuet was clutching a bin bag and following Courfeyrac around the room. Jehan was nowhere to be seen.

“Morning sleepy head,” Courf greeted him cheerfully. “You’ll be pleased to know there were no casualties and in about an hour’s time you’ll be the proud owner of the cleanest kitchen in North London, if not Britain.” 

Feuilly laughed as Joly chucked a wet flannel which hit Courfeyrac squarely in the back of the head.

“Did Combeferre stay?” he asked, managing to croak out the question through his scratchy throat. Courf grinned wickedly.

“Ah, Don Juanferre retired in a taxi with a mademoiselle on his arm,” he quipped, gathering up some more rubbish and tipping it into the bin bag.

“And your mademoiselles?” he asked suspiciously. Courf pointed towards the bathroom where Feuilly could hear the sound of running water. Well, at least they weren’t on a water meter.

To his relief, no one commented on or asked about Jehan. A glance in the mirror confirmed his suspicions; apart from a serious case of bed hair, his neck was practically purple in the most unsubtle fashion. He may as well have had “got laid last night” tattooed across his forehead.

Once Joly had passed his seal of approval on the kitchen and Courf had muttered what was obviously a filthy invitation for “breakfast” to his two companions, Feuilly was left on his own. He took a deep breath before going to knock gently on Jehan’s door.

“Everyone’s gone,” he called through the door. “It’s just us, now.”

Jehan opened the door. Feuilly was surprised to see that he was dressed and looked fresh as a daisy, if a little pale. 

“Good morning, Feuilly. Did you sleep well?”

Ok, that was ridiculously formal for someone who had done such a good job of fucking him into that mattress the night before.

“Come off it, Jehan. Tell me what’s wrong.” He folded his arms and leant against the door frame in what he hoped was his very best “don’t fuck with me” pose. Jehan sighed, stepping out of his room, forcing Feuilly to move backwards before he closed the door behind him.

“Shall we go into the living room?”

Five minutes later they were both sitting cross-legged on the sofa, Feuilly staring at him expectantly.

“I meant what I said.” Jehan spoke evenly, his face expressionless. “I’ve wanted you since I first saw you. But I know it isn’t what you want. So I’m sorry for forcing that onto you.” He looked away, his face softened around the edges slightly, his cheeks pink.

“Oh, Jehan,” Feuilly sighed, shaking his head.

“Look, yes I have a serious Bahorel-shaped problem. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to sit around and pine for the rest of my life. I said yes last night because you are seriously fucking hot, especially when your tongue is half way down my throat and then I find out you’re not wearing any fucking boxers or briefs or whatever the fuck you usually wear under jeans.”

He pulled a hand through his hair in annoyance. He liked Jehan. He’d like to do Jehan again, given the chance. He thought they’d been on the same page last night. He thought they’d be ok.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you weren’t offering me a relationship last night, were you,” he frowned, hoping his alcohol-befuddled brain had at least interpreted that bit correctly. He made a mental promise to himself to stop hook-ups when drunk. It was just too complicated. Jehan nodded evenly, much to his relief.

“I maintain that while we have excellent chemistry in bed, dating would be a disaster.” Feuilly grinned at the evident compliment; Jehan had at least enjoyed last night as much as he had. 

“Good, so we’re on the same page. Because that was great and I really don’t want either of us to go away from such a fantastic fuck with a bitter taste in our mouths.” Jehan raised an eyebrow but his lips definitely twitched and Feuilly counted that as a small victory.

“There’s something else, though, isn’t there?” Jehan suddenly looked guarded, a tensing in his shoulders. “Wait, no, some _one_ else. Oh.” Suddenly everything clicked into place.

“You like –”

“No,” Jehan interrupted him, literally covering Feuilly’s mouth with his hand. “Don’t say it out loud. I don’t like him. Not at all.” He removed his hand, a cold, hard look on his face, daring Feuilly to speak.

“He is loud and obnoxious and has absolutely no manners. He carries himself around like he owns the place and he’s not even half as charming as he thinks he is. And, oh GOD, Feuilly, I’m so fucked, aren’t I?”

And with that he buried his head in his hands. Feuilly couldn’t help but chuckle, pulling the boy into his arms, holding him close and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Yes, dear Jehan, you are definitely fucked. But it doesn’t matter because we can be fucked together.” He ran his hand in comforting motions up and down his back. “You and I can sit in our flat together watching terrible films, eating ridiculous amounts of ice cream and having amazing sex together because we can…” Jehan lifted his head, looking up with red eyes at Feuilly’s sincere and kind face. 

“We’ll fuck each other until we stop caring. Ok?”

Jehan answered him with a kiss.

+

Jehan was at work when Feuilly first decided to experiment with the bath. It had been an unbelievably long day at Chiswick House and he was covered in muck and dried grass.

He poured himself a cold beer from the fridge, grabbed one of the books Jehan had left lying on the coffee table in the living room and retreated to the bathroom.

He examined the vast array of essential oils on the shelf with suspicion. Jehan swore by them. He had told Feuilly to help himself, not that Feuilly had ever intended to do so. He didn’t understand the fuss with baths, but Jehan seemed to spend hours and hours in there, reading or singing to himself. He had already ruined a couple of notebooks by accidentally knocking them into the water. Feuilly had managed to save a few with the help of the radiator and Jehan’s hairdryer. 

He had then gone out and bought Jehan some sharpies so he could write any ideas for stories or poems, or just quotes or whatever else it was that entered his mind in the bath directly onto the tiles to be transcribed later when all the water had safely gone down the plughole.

Finally he settled on the one marked Lavender, tipping a few drops under the running tap. As the room filled with steam and the heady relaxing scent, he pulled off his clothes and stepped into the bath.

The water was scorching round his feet and he swiftly hopped back out, making an embarrassing noise that he would definitely deny if anyone asked about it. He flicked the water flow from the taps to the shower head, running cold water over his feet as he bravely stepped back in, the cold combating the heat. Eventually he was able to stand still in the bath. He turned the water back to the taps, allowing the bath to fill with both hot and cold as he knelt down in the bath, before sitting back, letting the water swirl around him.

Now that he was in the tub, immersed in the softly scented water, he felt his eyes slip shut. This was… strangely comforting. He could feel the ache of the day seeping out of his skin.

The creak of the bathroom door caught his attention, but he had little energy to do much more than groan in greeting.

“Mind if I join you?” Jehan sounded amused. No doubt he was highly entertained to find his rough-and-tumble, devil-may-care, ‘baths are boring, showers are so much better’ flatmate lying in a hot steamy bathtub of lavender.

The water in the bath shifted as Jehan stepped in and Feuilly’s eyes shot open because he hadn’t expected that to actually happen. What was more, Jehan was still fully clothed in his shirt and work trousers.

“Jehan –” But any protest he was going to make was lost in a kiss. He heard the splatter of water hitting the linoleum as Jehan lay down on top of him, hands on Feuilly’s shoulders.

“You look so beautiful just lying in the water. I love your hair,” he murmured against Feuilly’s lips.

Suddenly he was moving back again, twisting in the water. More splashing, more mess on the bathroom floor, no doubt, and then Jehan was back, offering him a cigarette, one of his Gauloises. Jehan placed it between Feuilly’s lips and lit it for him, before turning and resting his back against Feuilly’s chest and lighting his own.

“How was your day?” he asked, exhaling into the steam, watching the smoke swirl towards the ceiling. Feuilly chuckled at the domestic question in contrast to the setting.

“It happened,” he said nonchalantly. “Yours?” Jehan took a moment to answer.

“A man came in wanting forty-five carnations for his wife, one for every year they had been married. He was eighty-two and she died nine years ago.” They sat together in silence.

“Shall I cook tonight?” Feuilly offered, stubbing his cigarette out. Jehan leant back, resting his head on Feuilly’s shoulder.

“Please.”

+

Bahorel was surprised to find Jehan hovering outside the library where had been subjected to one of Enjolras’s study sessions for next week’s exam. Enjolras grabbed Courfeyrac and waved a hasty goodbye to both of them before marching away, leaving the two to talk. Bahorel eyed Enjolras’s retreating figure with suspicion.

“Would you mind if we went to get coffee?” Jehan asked politely. Bahorel opened his mouth to say that yes, he would mind a lot actually but he couldn’t think of a good reason and he wasn’t one for lying so he found himself blindly agreeing and allowing himself to be led towards a coffee shop.

Five minutes later they were seated at a secluded table, a cup of Peppermint tea in front of Jehan, an Americano for Bahorel.

“I hope you don’t mind if I just cut straight to it. I know I can come across as blunt sometimes, but I don’t want to hover around the subject and you don’t strike me as someone who tolerates a lot of bullshit.” Jehan smiled ever so sweetly through his speech which rather wrong-footed Bahorel. He nodded for Jehan to continue.

“You don’t like me.” Jehan fished the teabag out of the cup and placed it down on the saucer before taking a sip, looking right into Bahorel’s eyes. It would be almost intimidating except that Bahorel didn’t know Jehan well enough yet to know that he should be intimidated by the man in front of him.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said gruffly, searching for the truth of his feelings and trying to do the best he could with what he found. “I just don’t know you.”

Jehan seemed to consider his answer, his head on one side, nodding vaguely.

“Well that is something. I would be a little devastated if you had decided you didn’t like me without good reason. Because I like you. What’s more, Feuilly thinks the world of you.” Jehan watched Bahorel’s response to this very carefully, wondering how much the man knew of the truth in his words. He saw a slight flush to Bahorel’s cheeks, the smallest twitch of the eyebrows. No, Bahorel didn’t know. But it wasn’t Jehan’s place to enlighten him. That wasn’t the point of the exercise.

“Yeah, well, he’s my best mate. I think a lot of him, too.” Bahorel seemed to be almost pouting, the words clumsy in his mouth. Jehan decided to cut him a break. It was obvious how he felt about Feuilly. He set his cup down, relaxing his shoulders.

“Excellent. See? We already have something in common. I would really like us to be friends. I value and respect all of Feuilly’s friends and their opinions. So in the interests of getting us off to a better start, is there anything I can do to set your mind at rest…?” He trailed off, welcoming Bahorel’s input to the conversation.

The fact was, Feuilly had missed Bahorel. Everyone else had visited the flat, calling round for a cup of tea or a movie or just because. Even Enjolras had visited twice, getting into a long discussion with Feuilly about mandatory breaks and working hours. But Bahorel had been absent since the party.

It wasn’t as if Feuilly hadn’t tried. He had texted Bahorel, he had called Bahorel. He had asked friends to pass on messages. Nothing.

Bahorel wasn’t entirely sure what it was that prevented him from returning Feuilly’s calls, what stopped him from popping round for a drink. Uni was over and done with for the year. They had one more exam and then, in a few weeks, they would be moving out of Halls and into their various shared houses.

Jehan was tired of watching Feuilly grow more and more despondent and had determined to do something about it, something drastic if needs be.

“Look, I don’t have a problem with you,” Bahorel began, finding with a little surprise that he meant it. He did like Jehan, or he wanted to at least. The guy was smart and lot nicer than some of Feuilly’s previous boy or girlfriends.

“I have been a little busy with uni work but I know that isn’t really an excuse. I worry about Feuilly but he gets…” Bahorel considered his next words carefully. 

“He doesn’t like it when he thinks people are interfering. Say, for example, a friend were to think, hypothetically, that he was rushing into a relationship a bit quickly.” The tips of Bahorel’s ears were definitely pink now. “Would it be better to fall out over it? Or better to just stay away?”

Jehan stared at him for a moment in confusion before light finally dawned.

“You think we moved in together because we’re in a relationship?” he clarified, just to make sure they were on the same page. Bahorel frowned at the slightly incredulous tone. Jehan took a deep breath.

“Feuilly and I, as much as I adore him completely, are and only ever will be casual.”

“Didn’t look that fucking casual to me,” Bahorel growled, his mind returning to the night of the party. Jehan fought to keep his lips in a line, knowing that to smile or laugh right now might just get him punched for his troubles.

“I can assure you, from the very bottom of my heart, however much I might regret it, Feuilly and I are just friends. We have fooled about, of course, but it was mutually consensual fooling about with no expectation on either side. I can safely promise you that I am not toying with him, nor do I have any intentions of breaking his heart.” He laid a hand on his chest in earnest oath.

“It wouldn’t be any of my business if you were,” Bahorel retorted, but Jehan could see his shoulders had relaxed slightly.

“That is true,” Jehan took another sip of his tea. “But I’d like you to believe me all the same. If that is what is standing between you and your friendship with Feuilly or your good opinion of me then it is better set aside now.”

A few moments of silence settled between them before Bahorel cleared his throat.

“So, Jehan. I understand you’re into British Dance Bands. How did that come about and do you have any recommendations?”

Jehan smiled warmly. The ice had been broken at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title shamelessly stolen from Mr Hugo.


	10. And The Living Is Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys spend the summer together

The summer passed them by in a haze of barbeques and house parties. Having moved out of halls at the end of June, there were now two houses to play host in addition to Jehan and Feuilly’s flat, giving the pair a welcome break. Not that any of the friends were particularly badly behaved at parties, but it took the pressure off slightly now that they shared the risk to carpets and glasses.

Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac had moved into a shared apartment, while Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel and Marius had found an old Victorian terrace to rent, complete with a courtyard perfect for bonfires and sitting outside, smoking and chatting late into the night.

There followed a period of weeks where the two locations played host to the group, impromptu party following impromptu party in a vague attempt to outdo each other. It was clear that Courfeyrac was taking advantage of the fact that Enjolras had already left for the summer, jetting off to a family holiday in Spain. Combeferre demonstrated his usual benevolent patience when he returned home to yet another gathering in full swing, not minding really because everyone was rather good at organising the post-party tidy-up the following day.

Feuilly enjoyed sitting out in the scrambled and untidy little courtyard garden at Bahorel’s new place, perched precariously on almost-broken plastic chairs with his friends after work. The cool of the night air contrasted perfectly with the heat of the city. He gazed around the group, only half listening to their chatter, feeling more content and comfortable than he could ever remember being in his life.

After the initial excitement the boys settled down to their new homes, peace descending as one by one, the students retreated home to their parents. Feuilly threw himself into his work, enjoying watching all his autumn and winter work bloom into fruition. Visitors flocked to Chiswick House and with them came inevitable wear, tear and damage as children wilfully stamped across his flower beds and, bizarrely, were permitted by their feckless parents to climb the trees. He seemed to spend most of his summer days fixing, repairing, tidying and trying to keep his section of the gardens looking at their very best in the face of such heavy use.

In the evenings he returned to his flat which, for two weeks was Jehan-less while his flatmate ventured home to make polite conversation with his parents. He took the opportunity to raid Jehan’s extensive book collection, voraciously consuming text after text, setting an alarm for 10:30pm to remind him to go to bed each evening. He read on the tube to work and on the way home. He read while his dinner cooked in the oven, pausing to eat before retreating to the balcony to squeeze in another few chapters before the light faded.

Feuilly happened to be on the balcony when Jehan returned, leaning against the balustrade smoking, and so caught a glimpse of Jehan’s mother when she dropped Jehan outside; a flash of red hair in the driver seat as her son leapt out with his rucksack. Feuilly was surprised to see Jehan in straight-leg jeans and a hoodie, despite the prickling heat of Saturday afternoon. He couldn’t remember ever having seen Jehan in such clothes before. Not that they were on long. He peeled them off almost before the front door was closed.

“Lip service to my father,” he muttered in disgust, physically throwing the clothes away from him in a fit of temper before retiring to the bathroom for a well-deserved soak. Feuilly took him a glass of red wine to welcome him home, before leaving him to the steam and the scent of ylang ylang.

That night Feuilly was woken by the dipping of his mattress as Jehan crawled in to join him, wrapping his limbs around him, whispering in the dark for permission that Feuilly was all too happy to give. He waited, wondering if Jehan wanted to talk about it, or whether he just needed something tangible to cling to. He felt those poetic fingers clench and unclench against his skin before Jehan let out a final sigh, resting his head in the crook of Feuilly’s neck.

“Mother is pleased I’ve made friends,” he said at last. Feuilly tightened his grip around the young man’s shoulders and was unable to resist pressing a kiss to his forehead. After a while he heard Jehan’s breath even out as he finally drifted off to sleep in Feuilly’s arms.

Most of the guys were back in the last two weeks of August having grown tired of the novelties of home, with only Marius still absent until the start of the next semester. Of course it would be Courfeyrac who suggested they should pack their bags for Bank Holiday weekend. The idea quickly took hold, with Enjolras volunteering to be designated driver for the weekend.

After a long and loud discussion it was decided that, to keep costs low, they would camp. Tents and sleeping bags were procured and Courfeyrac insisted on getting a gazebo.

Bahorel rang Feuilly, asking if he and Jehan would be up for an adventure, but fully expecting a negative response. Feuilly surprised him. Far from a sucking of teeth and a regretful refusal, his friend said it sounded like a great idea before tentatively agreeing as he was due some time off. He would have to check to confirm obviously, but otherwise Bahorel could count him in. 

They rented a minivan so that all of them could travel together. Combeferre had to intervene when the friendly discussion over seating arrangements threatened to boil over. Joly insisted that he had to sit in the front passenger seat or he would be sick and so was nominated navigator. Everywhere else was up for grabs.

Jehan, Feuilly and Bahorel ended up on the back row with Feuilly in the middle, after a mostly silent discussion between Jehan and Feuilly involving a lot of face-pulling from both parties, Bahorel had witnessed only part of the exchange and from the set of Feuilly’s shoulders and the pull of his bottom lip he knew the man wasn’t happy.

What he hadn’t been privy to was Jehan’s slightly panicked look as Courf had bounced over to the van, suggesting that they all draw straws to see who got to sit where. Nonetheless he graciously accepted Feuilly’s invitation to make the third person in the last row, even if Feuilly had immediately and automatically pulled out his cigarettes, a sure sign of anxiety that Bahorel didn’t fully understand.

That anxiety only increased when Enjolras plucked the unlit cigarette from between Feuilly’s lips (a move Bahorel thought brave and Jehan thought stupid) before reading them all the riot act about how he fully expected to get his deposit back at the end of this trip so there would be no smoking, eating, drinking or being sick in the van at all. He then had Combeferre go round the smokers to confiscate all tobacco, cigarettes, papers and lighters, promising their return once they reached the ferry.

Combeferre settled himself into the middle seat of the second row without fuss, allowing Bossuet to sit behind Joly while Courf settled in behind the driver.

Everyone had contributed a CD for the journey and Joly blindly picked the first one which turned out to be Metallica’s S&M album, Combeferre pinking slightly at the ears when Jehan complimented his taste.

The journey down to Southampton was loud and boisterous and Enjolras bore it as best he could, only having to bellow for calm on one occasion when Bossuet and Courfeyrac got into a thumb war which ended with Combeferre’s glasses hitting Feuilly in the forehead. As they pulled onto the car ferry to take them to the Isle of Wight, there was a general sigh of relief. They now had an hour’s respite from the van.

Immediately the smokers headed for top deck, Enjolras pulling a face as Bahorel quipped about getting a spot of fresh air. Courf, Joly and Bossuet headed towards the bar to get some drinks in while Combeferre led Enjolras over to some seats for a bit of peace and quiet. They watched the mainland slip away behind them as they headed out towards the Solent.

They had rented a few pitches next to each other at a campsite on the southwest side of the island, on a clifftop looking out over the sea. Although they weren’t the only campers there enjoying the unusually hot bank-holiday weather, the owner had kindly set them apart from other campers. With a bit of luck and the wind in the right direction, any noise they made would go over the cliff.

A little nest of tents quickly emerged with the gazebo in the middle, forming a rough living space for them, with camp chairs set about haphazardly. Joly, Bossuet and Enjolras went off to the nearest town to stock up on supplies while the others set-to in pitching the tents. 

Ferre erected the little dome tent he was sharing with Enjolras, while Courfeyrac put up Joly and Bossuet’s as those two were still not back from the shopping trip. Bahorel was swearing loudly at the tent he was meant to be constructing for him and Courfeyrac.

“Is that the one from France?” Feuilly grinned over to Bahorel who had just successfully smashed his fingers with a mallet. Bahorel, still sucking his fingers, muttered something that sounded distinctly like “fuck off” before turning back to the tent, his back to Feuilly so that the redhead missed the small smile on his face.

Jehan and Feuilly were sharing the last tent, a spacious four-man construction with a porch. Jehan was inflating an air mattress with a footpump while Feuilly pegged out the groundsheet, both men making a neat and efficient team in the warm afternoon sunshine.

A cheer went up as Enjolras, Joly and Bossuet returned with a van full of beer and snacks. The barbeque was lit and soon the air was filled with the deliciously tempting scent of burgers and frying onions.

Chatter filled the dusky air as they sat down comfortably under the gazebo, occasionally retreating to their tents for a jumper or a blanket as evening turned to night.

Combeferre and Enjolras retired first, the latter exhausted from the long drive, and Joly and Bossuet were not far behind, leaving Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Jehan and Feuilly sitting out in the night air.

Feuilly relaxed back in his camping chair, taking a long drag on his cigarette as his listened to his friends chatting easily around him. He smiled as Jehan joined in the discussion, pleased to hear his friend’s soft but certain voice sounding so comfortable among the others. They had managed to get on to the subject of poetry and for once Jehan was responding generously and unreservedly to Courfeyrac’s probing questions. He shot a look over to the other man, who was sat forward in his camping chair, chin resting on fingers, giving his full attention to Jehan who was opposite him.

He caught Bahorel’s eye and smiled as the guy offered him another beer. This was good, this was perfect.

The following morning they woke to the soft sound of rain pattering against the roof of the tent. The light was strangely muted through the canvas and Feuilly groaned at the prospect of having to walk to the wash block in the rain. He found Jehan sitting in the porch, sliding a pair of daisy-print flipflops onto his feet. Jehan grinned at him, his hair bound into a thick plait to stop it from knotting too badly in his sleep.

“Want to make a run for it?” He asked, eyes sparkling. Jehan loved the rain. He loved walking in it, running in it, sitting in it, dancing in it. Rain was his second favourite sort of precipitation after snow, especially summer rain. Feuilly thought he was bonkers and had said so on a number of occasions when he’d found his flatmate smoking out on the balcony without a coat and getting soaked to the skin for his troubles.

They were both drenched by the time they had run up the field towards the wash block, the hard summer rain clinging to Feuilly’s hair and t-shirt as they both tumbled inside, Jehan laughing while Feuilly swore and shivered. A moment later he heard a familiar bark of laughter and a towel collided with the side of his face.

“Morning, sleepy head,” Bahorel drawled, dressed only in jogging bottoms, his mohawk glistening with water droplets from his shower. Feuilly averted his gaze, whilst trying to commit to memory the image of Bahorel, shirtless and fresh out of the shower, his face alight with a broad smile. Bahorel sauntered out of the wash block, his sandals clacking against the concrete, apparently impervious to the stinging rain outside. Feuilly watched him go, an old ache rising until a soft hand touched his forearm.

Jehan looked up at him, smiling sadly before standing on tiptoe to bestow a soft kiss on Feuilly’s cheek. Feuilly grinned then, shaking the feeling away. They were on holiday. All his friends were here. He wasn’t one for moping and he certainly wasn’t going to start now. He squeezed Jehan’s arm before giving him a playful shove towards the shower.

When they got back, Bahorel had the gas stove lit with a pan of water beginning to boil while he took requests for tea and coffee. Courf was wrapped in a blanket under the gazebo, wearing a pair of pink plastic sunglasses and pouting at Bossuet who was cheerfully chatting with Combeferre about his recent trip to Iceland with Joly. As he walked over to his tent, Feuilly heard Courf mutter something about the madness of going to Iceland on a summer holiday and couldn’t help but smile.

Enjolras was bent over a map, trying to put together an itinerary for the day, bearing in mind that the rain looked as though it would be on and off throughout the day. There were various chines nearby for access to the beach. Bossuet had expressed an interest in visiting Arreton church where a knight of Agincourt was buried, a request quickly seconded by Jehan and Combeferre.

There were mutterings about passing Farringford, the home of Alfred Lord Tennyson, while others advocated Carisbrooke Castle. Jehan tentatively suggested Appledurcombe House, a compellingly beautiful echo of an 18th century manor house, with only the façade still standing and a reputation for ghosts. At the mention of hauntings Bahorel groaned but Bossuet made an enthusiastic noise and Combeferre, who while not necessarily a believer in ghosts, did not go so far as to deny the possibility of their existence, suggested that it might be an interesting venture.

The shell of Appledurcombe rested at the end of a long, winding lane at the top of the hill. When the boys tumbled out of the van in the car park they instantly tore off into various different directions. Joly and Bossuet headed towards the falconry centre, enthusing over the birds of prey and their chilling beauty. Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac walked towards the house, picking their way through the ruins and reading the information boards. 

Feuilly cast an appraising look at the brick work and the shadows cast by the arches of the former doorways before throwing his coat down and wrestling his sketchbook out of his messenger bag. Jehan was picking his way towards a fireplace, running his fingers over the stones and bricks. Feuilly watched him, his artistic eye caught as his hands began to move over the paper.

Bahorel stood a little away from the others, having spared a cursory glance to the falcons and kestrels that Joly and Bossuet were making such a fuss over. He spotted Feuilly on the grass, the casual duck and lift of his head, the curve of his neck and the shape of his forearm. He followed Feuilly’s gaze to where Jehan was crouched in a fireplace, drawing patterns with his finger in the dust. Jehan looked up then, obviously feeling Bahorel’s gaze upon him, and smiled broadly, waving. Feuilly turned round at Jehan’s wave, raising his eyebrows at the man lurking behind him.

“You all right there, mate?” he greeted jovially, the freckles on his nose crinkling with his smile. All heads snapped round a few moments later at a shout, followed by Courfeyrac hurtling round the corner, laughing hard. Combeferre emerged a moment later, trying to suppress a smile, while Enjolras looked fit to burst, heat rising high in his cheeks.

After a few more sketches and when the boys had exhausted every avenue, tried every door and explored the cellars extensively, they returned to the van, making plans to spend the rest of the day on the beach.

They ended up at Brooke, a small beach at the bottom of a cliff. The clouds had cleared completely, and the boys were only too happy to seek respite from the summer heat in the sea. Only Jehan remained on the beach. Enjolras was one of the first in, managing to duck Courf, getting him back for jumping out at him earlier. The suncream was handed out, Bahorel rubbing into Feuilly’s skinny back, making disparaging remarks throughout, while the redhead rubbed cream into Jehan. Joly was extra attentive to poor Bossuet as he couldn’t very well wear a hat in the water. 

When they returned back to camp there was a rush for the shower before getting the barbeque going. With the barbeque came the beer and with the beer came stories and after the stories came the songs.

They watched the sun set over in the west behind the cliffs in the distance, a distinct sense of contentment settling over the group. Was there anything finer than this; to be well fed and watered in the heat of the night with your best friends on an island. To be young.

 

+

_October_

The mood in the pub was strangely sombre as Feuilly squeezed into a seat opposite Bahorel. He looked round his friends’ dark faces in confusion while he wrestled to release his wallet from his pocket. 

“Hey, who died?” he asked, counting out enough change for a pint. He was met with a wall of silence. Even Courfeyrac, life and soul of the party on every occasion, remained uncharacteristically quiet. He looked to Bahorel for answers and received a jerk of the head. Together they made their way over to the bar.

“Shit, no one really is dead, are they?” Feuilly cast a worried glance back at the table, noting for the first time that Enjolras and Combeferre were absent.

“No, no one’s dead,” Bahorel spoke quietly, solemnly. He ordered two pints and waved away Feuilly’s copper collection in favour of the £10 note already clutched in his hand.

“It’s Enjolras.”

Bahorel pulled a face, returning his change to his pocket and letting out a long sigh. Feuilly waited patiently for his mate to continue.

“He got drunk. Ferre’s just taken him home.” 

Feuilly’s eyes widened. Just then a hand clamped down on his shoulder, making him jump slightly. He turned to see Courfeyrac, looking pale and worried.

“Hey, do you guys mind if I hang with you for a bit? Combeferre is trying to talk Enjolras down at our flat and I think they have ‘stuff’ to sort out.” His mouth twisted, evidently unhappy and worried for his friends. Usually Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac were a team to be reckoned with, but every so often a situation would arise where Courf felt rather out of his depth, as though he was missing half the picture. On these occasions it was easier to bow out gracefully and leave the two friends to sort it out amongst themselves, than to suffer through the furious silent conversation between them.

Bahorel nodded, face sympathetic. It was the very least they could do. One more drink at the bar and they would retreat back to Bahorel’s place and the courtyard for smoking and extensive discussion of the afternoon’s events.

+

“Come on, Enjolras,” Combeferre somehow managed to negotiate Enjolras out of the taxi where had been sitting very quietly, co-operating with his friend’s request that he allow Combeferre to take him home without objection or incident.

When Combeferre had entered the pub after receiving Joly’s SOS, he hadn’t been sure what to expect. Joly had said Enjolras was drunk but he found that hard to believe. Enjolras didn’t get drunk. In all the years they had been friends he could count on one hand the number of times he had seen the man drink. 

But it had been true. Enjolras was drunk. He was sitting in a table in the corner, staring straight ahead, both eyes red-rimmed and slightly out of focus. A number of thoughts ran through Ferre’s mind as to what could possibly be the cause of such a thing. It wasn’t April or February, usual dates that Ferre looked out for. No obvious triggers sprung to mind.

His other friends stood around looking helpless and lost, a mark of just how unusual an incident this was. How many times had they bundled a giggling Bossuet into a taxi or scraped Courf off the tarmac after a night out together? Drunkenness amongst the friends was not unusual by any stretch. But nobody had ever had to deal with Enjolras before.

“Enjolras?” he enquired cautiously, slotting into a chair opposite his friend. It was clear he had been there most of the afternoon, on his own according to Joly and Bossuet who had found him there. Ferre couldn’t help but check his watch. It wasn’t even six o’clock in the evening yet.

It turned out that Enjolras was something of a devastated drunk. He had looked up at Combeferre with the saddest eyes, looking extraordinarily lost.

“How are you here?” he asked simply, words slurring slightly, eyes hazing and unfocused after a few moments of concentration. His head dropped, eyes returning to the table.

“What happened?” Combeferre kept his tone level and firm, waiting patiently for a response, watching as Enjolras scrunched up his face, his nose wrinkling, before finally releasing a long sigh.

“My parents are moving to Australia,” Enjolras picked up a glass as though to make a toast. “They sent me an email. They’ve sold the house and will be leaving within the month.”

Ferre reached forward to prise the glass from Enjolras who gave it up without fuss. He eyed his friend critically, rubbing his forehead with two fingers. How this news had somehow translated into Enjolras deciding that drinking was a good idea, he didn’t know, but they had reached this point, nonetheless.

Somehow he had persuaded Enjolras to go home with him, back to the house they shared with Courfeyrac. Bahorel flagged down a taxi and helped move Enjolras into a standing position. Enjolras hadn’t said a word the whole time which proved to be more unnerving than drunken rambling. The driver had eyed them suspiciously but after several assurances from Combeferre and an advanced payment from Bahorel, he agreed to take them.

Combeferre had left Enjolras to sway on the doorstep while he tussled with his keys, eventually opening the door and guiding them both inside. Enjolras wobbled over to the sofa and dropped down onto it without ceremony. Combeferre eyed him critically before moving towards the kitchen to fetch a pint of water and some paracetamol.

When he returned, Enjolras was sitting forward, his chin resting on his hands, his gaze distant.

“Why does everyone keep leaving me, Ferre? Is it me? Am I a bad person?” Enjolras looked up at him, his blue eyes swimming.

Combeferre took a deep breath, dropping into the seat next to Enjolras. He put his head on one side, considering before reaching out to place a gentle, warm hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Not everyone’s left you. I’m here, aren’t I?” He waited for Enjolras to nod, even though the man was chewing his lip with uncertainty.

“And your friends – we’re all here.”

To his intense surprise, Enjolras suddenly lurched forward, throwing his arms round Combeferre. They had never really been the type of friends to hug

“I miss him, Ferre,” Enjolras mumbled into Combeferre’s jumper. “I’m pathetic.”

“Enough, Enjolras,” Combeferre pulled back, untangling Enjolras’s arms from his neck and holding the guy firmly by his shoulders. “You are not pathetic. You’re human. I know you forget that sometimes but you need to listen because it’s important.”

He fixed Enjolras with a serious look. The blue eyes before him swam unsteadily while Enjolras attempted to do as he was told and focus.

“We’re here for you, Enjolras. Just stop trying to do it all by yourself.”

He managed to negotiate Enjolras into bed, getting him to drink another pint of water first, and leaving him with a bucket and some paracetamol. As he switched off Enjolras’s bedroom light he doubted very much he’d gotten through to the man, but he’d tried his best.

He sighed heavily, throwing himself down on the sofa before texting Courf that the coast was clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I am so sorry that it took me forever to update this. A lot of things happened one after the other, and then a whole bunch more all at the same time. So, yes we're now back in the game.
> 
> Appledurcombe Manor - please please google it so you can see what a beautiful structure it is. It is quite literally a shell, just the facade standing and then empty and ruins behind.
> 
> Thank you all for bearing with me on this :)  
> (hey, did you spot the e/R, did ya? ;-p)


	11. Of Roundness and Radiance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day in February...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for talk surrounding HIV

Feuilly groaned as his brain dragged him back towards consciousness. There was a large angry troll hammering an anvil in his head and his mouth tasted like he’d been licking a sandpit for most of the night. 

He was also incredibly warm. Too warm. It was February and it had been decided to switch off the heating in the flat at the end of January because it was either that or not eat because he and Jehan could not afford to do both. But right now he was so hot he was sweating and he doubted very much that was a symptom of his hangover. There was also a scent, a scent that was familiar but not his.

His eyes flew open as something next to him groaned; someone. Someone large, broad-shouldered and with a mohawk. Panic set in as Feuilly realised he wasn’t even in his own bed. Holy shit he was sharing a bed with Bahorel.

+

The winter had passed by uneventfully. It was an easy routine, get up, go to work, come home, take a shower, eat, dinner, go to bed, sleep. His work at Chiswick House had not slowed down just because autumn was turning into winter. There was clearing up and cutting back to be done, preparation for the spring.

In between there were parties and trips down the pub, nights spent huddled under blankets, smoking in Bahorel’s courtyard trying to spot stars through the haze of light pollution. There were film nights and comedy nights, then there had been the now infamous Christmas pub-crawl. 

Feuilly was fairly certain Courfeyrac had been responsible for “making things interesting” and instigating the three-legged rule, where they would be paired off and attached to each other with a length of tinsel. 

Names had been drawn from a hat, with Courfeyrac proclaiming himself Master of Ceremonies. While he wouldn’t necessarily be tied to anyone or taking part in the actual competitive side of the crawl, it would fall to him to be referee. The others had grinned and let him get on with it.

Feuilly had spent the night tied to Combeferre who proved to be a terrifying and brilliant partner in crime. The man could drink! 

“Teacher,” was the only explanation Combeferre provided after downing his fifth pint, Feuilly watching slightly awestruck. For some reason he had put Combeferre in the same column as Enjolras in regards to drinking, which had obviously proved to be an error.

Much to everyone’s amusement, Enjolras and Marius had been paired off. They were perfectly suited; Enjolras not wishing to drink too much, if at all, while Marius was evidently relieved at not having been matched with Courfeyrac. They came a cheerful last by a long way.

Of course Joly and Bossuet were together, even though it had entirely been down to chance. Joly insisted on alternating their drinks with water which in the short term meant they didn’t win the crawl but resulted in significantly smaller hangovers than everyone else the next day.

Bahorel and Jehan had made a brilliant team, despite the frankly hilarious height difference. They seemed to find their rhythm and soon they had a system going. Bahorel had carried Jehan on his back for the last two pubs which Courf had argued was cheating, docking them five points which was the only reason they hadn’t won. Bahorel, Jehan’s arms wrapped round him as the young man nestled into the back of his neck, didn’t really care by that point, the comfort of his friend being far more important.

It had been an excellent night and Feuilly had kept the little plastic crown Courf had placed on his head when they won, putting it on his chest of drawers next to the little vial of coloured sand he had brought back from the Isle of Wight in the summer.

Christmas had been a quiet affair. Bahorel had invited him to spend it with his family which had been unexpected but very pleasant. Sleeping on Bahorel’s floor had been like old times and his mother had fussed around Feuilly has though he was a long lost son, clucking over how thin he was and over how well he was doing in his apprenticeship. Bahorel had coloured around the ears slightly, muttering an apology, but Feuilly thought it was nice. 

After Christmas had come January which was no one’s favourite month, with its darkness and stinging rain and spring nowhere in sight. Working at Chiswick House in the snow had been no fun at all. He had been horribly late for work because none of the tube trains were working and the buses were all severely delayed. He ignored the cold, trying to warm himself with work while hoping his fingers wouldn’t fall off.

Darling Jehan had been an absolute lifesaver, knitting him some gloves and providing him with a thermos of coffee to take to work each morning. They huddled together in the flat in the evenings, trying to delay putting on the heating for as long as possible.

Working at the florists came as a welcome relief, the shop cosy and warm both before Christmas and after, with the sparkling lights of Covent Garden, the happy faces of the shoppers and the delicious smells that filtered through the door from the chestnut seller on the corner. Feuilly lived for those days as he waited patiently for January to be over.

February would be an important month. His birthday aside, it was also the end of his apprenticeship. In February he learned whether he would stay on as an undergardener or if he would be sent packing and in need of another job.

He had talked it through quite extensively with Jehan, all the possibilities and options open to them if the worst happened; how they would cover the rent or look for somewhere else to live, how he would try not to leave Jehan in the lurch.

Of course all the worrying was for nothing. He passed with flying colours and the Head Gardener was only too pleased to welcome him onto his permanent team. Feuilly could barely move his fingers as he attempted to unlock his phone so he could spread the good news. 

Which was how he ended up in a bar surrounded by his friends getting horrifically drunk. The last thing he remembered was Bahorel handing him a shot glass and now, here he was, in Bahorel’s bed listening to the man’s deep steady breathing beside him.

The relief he felt at still being in his boxers was short-lived but welcome, and his body didn’t feel like it had been fucked recently so that, too, was a good sign. Trying not to disturb Bahorel, Feuilly craned his neck, spotting his phone abandoned on the bedside table. Slowly, he reached out to grab it, hoping it still had a few bars of battery left.

_To Jehan: HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME_

_To Feuilly: ???_

_To Jehan: I think I slept with Bahorel_

“You know you tap awfully loudly for someone who should technically have died from alcohol poisoning overnight,” Bahorel’s low voice grumbled over his shoulder, causing Feuilly to drop his phone in shock. He rolled back to see Bahorel rubbing his eyes with one hand, shifting onto his back in order to face the other man in his bed.

Feuilly swallowed nervously. He could hear his phone vibrating furiously on the floor but ignored it, unable to tear his eyes away from Bahorel with bedhead, the remnants of his mohawk sticking out at every angle.

“Erm… Did we…?” he gestured vaguely with his hand, hoping he’d got his point across and feeling ever so slightly terrified. If anything _had_ happened he was going to be a little bit devastated that he couldn’t remember it. 

Bahorel snorted, the noise reverberating round Feuilly’s already pounding head. He shifted to sit up, a twinkle in his eye as Feuilly felt his skin heat up with embarrassment.

“Nah, you’re all right mate. There was no way you were getting home on your own. Jehan had already gone home with Matty so I brought you back here.” He reached up to scratch the back of his head, yawning and stretching, and Feuilly fought to keep his eyes on his mate’s face.

“I would have slept on the sofa, but you were a bit… reluctant to let go,” and now Bahorel was laughing at him. Feuilly vaguely remembered that. He remembered the smell of Bahorel, a mixture of alcohol, anti-perspirant, smoke and sweat. He remembered clinging on to him because the world beneath his feet just wouldn’t stop spinning while Bahorel was like a rock. It was quite possible he had said so at the time. Repeatedly. He sank back into Bahorel’s mattress, covering his face with a pillow while Bahorel continued to chuckle at his discomfort.

Feuilly begged a shower while Bahorel promised him some scrambled eggs to chase away his hangover. When he entered the kitchen, Bahorel was at the stove, sharing a joke with Courf. He smothered a sigh because of course Bahorel hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt. It was like he didn’t own any. Instead he had a tea towel thrown over one tattooed shoulder.

“Ah, it’s Alan Titchmarsh!” Courfeyrac raised a mug in salute, far too bloody chirpy for Feuilly’s hangover to deal with.

“Who did you sleep with?” he asked, heading over to the kettle and pouring himself a mug of very strong coffee, not bothering to add milk. Courf grinned, good-naturedly.

“Marius. He didn’t mind bunking up, did you? He looked over Bahorel’s shoulder at a slightly bemused Marius as he entered the kitchen. His hair was sticking up all over the place, his eyes roving the counter looking for a clean mug. At sight of Courfeyrac he smiled sleepily and shook his head.

It was an easy atmosphere as they tucked in to Bahorel’s cooking, chatting over the events of the night before, those they could remember anyway. Feuilly texted a hasty apology to poor Jehan who, judging by the three missed calls and several distressed text messages, was threatening to come over and break down the door if he didn’t hear from Feuilly soon.

Feuilly felt slightly guilty. It was so rare for Jehan to get some time alone in the flat to spend with his boyfriend. Matty was a sweet guy Jehan had met at a poetry reading and they had been dating for just over a month. He was sympathetic to the dynamic of the group and had fitted in quite nicely. All the same, Feuilly knew Jehan wanted to have some private time, just them, and so far he had spent his day off frantically trying to get hold of Feuilly to check he was ok. At least they had the rest of the day to themselves.

Courf also had his nose in his phone.

“Huh, a text from Nic,” he exclaimed, a soft smile playing on his face.

“Ah, the dreaded ex!” Bahorel winked, serving more scrambled egg onto his plate. 

“I’ve been invited for coffee. Apparently we need to talk…” Courf pouted, still smiling as he considered the invitation while Bahorel started laughing.

“Oh, you’re for it now, sunshine! How long has it been since you broke up? Is there a mini Courfeyrac running around London?” He bumped Courf with his shoulder as he passed and Courf stuck out his tongue.

“I don’t think HE is likely to be pregnant, thank you,” he replied, taking the ribbing with good spirit. He tapped out a response. 

He and Nic had been together for about two months and had broken up quite amicably, neither wanting anything too serious while at uni, but recognising that they were a good match and so agreeing to stay in touch, or at least on good terms. A spot of coffee would be nice.

+

Bahorel was surprised to open the door to Courfeyrac later that afternoon. Everyone else was out. Feuilly had crawled back to his flat to sleep off the rest of his hangover. He had been in a bit of a strange mood all morning which Bahorel didn’t really understand, and the hug as he left had been slightly awkward. 

He doubted it was much to do with the events the night before. He and Feuilly had bunked plenty of times, not least over Christmas. Whatever it was, he trusted Feuilly to come to him eventually if there was a problem.

Joly and Bossuet had emerged at one o’clock in the afternoon. Joly had a Saturday lecture, while Bossuet and Marius had decided that they couldn’t put off the trip to the supermarket any longer, not when there was only pesto and a solitary onion in the fridge.

“Is Joly here?”

Courf was pale and quiet, the usual spark in his eyes extinguished. Bahorel stood back to let the man in to the hallway.

“Not right now, mate. Afternoon lecture.” Courf stood there, staring at the wall, giving no sign of having actually heard Bahorel.

“Hey,” he reached out to place a gentle hand on Courf’s shoulder. “You ok?”

Courfeyrac was not ok. Not by a long shot. At Bahorel’s question he opened his mouth to answer, then shut it again as the tears started to fall.

Bahorel took him through to the living room and sat him down on the sofa as the poor man sobbed and sobbed. Eventually the source of it came out and all Bahorel could do was stare in horror, a cold feeling settling in his stomach.

“It’s Nic. He has HIV.”

+

“But surely… surely you were careful, Courf?”

Joly was back. Everyone was back. Bahorel had sent a mass text to everyone, reading simply “Here. Now.” Within twenty minutes everyone had arrived.

They all hugged Courf, told him they were sorry about Nic and now they were discussing the next step. Enjolras sat on one side, his expression closed but his hand gripping tight to Courf’s, while Combeferre sat on his other side, rubbing the man’s arm reassuringly.

“I don’t know,” he croaked, still shaking slightly.

He had tried to explain to Bahorel while it was just the two of them. He was more or less sure he used protection every time. If he had been asked twenty-four hours before whether he used a condom every time the answer would have been yes, without hesitation.

Contrary to popular opinion, he didn’t fuck everything that moved but he had slept with a lot of people. He liked making connections and forming new friendships and sex was one way of doing that. They weren’t all one-night stands. He usually saw them again, some more than others, as was the case with Nic.

And yes, he was definitely one for using protection, with the guys as well as the girls. He was almost sure, but not enough to bet his life. Not enough for this. Now that it was the most important question in his life, now he couldn’t be so sure. All he could think of was the look on Nic’s face.

“Look, there’s only one thing we can do,” Bahorel stood against the wall, arms folded. There had been a lot of questions and a lot of muttering and a lot of support but not a lot of direction. It was time to move it on a bit.

“First thing Monday, you and I will go down the clinic.” Bahorel looked pointedly at Courfeyrac, waiting for him to nod his agreement.

“They do on-the-spot tests, don’t they Joly?” The trainee doctor nodded, adding that you could get your results in about half an hour.

Enjolras wasn’t happy. He wanted to go with them but he had a meeting he couldn’t possibly get out of. Combeferre was on a school placement and it would have been extremely bad form to cancel. 

“Look, he’ll be fine with me. We’ll let you know how we get on,” Bahorel reassured them, calm and firm in the middle of the crisis. And that was that.

+

“Does your partner want testing too?”

The nurse held a second form out to Courfeyrac who stared at it dumbly. It wouldn’t have surprised Bahorel if the poor guy wasn’t even sure what his own name was at that point, much less answer any other kind of question.

“Er, we’re not together. I’m just here for support,” he qualified, feeling slightly awkward. He took the form anyway. He looked at Courf, watched the man shakily writing out his details and thought how easily it could be him in his friend’s place. He’d done a fair bit of sleeping around himself. There had been at least two occasions where protection had been forgotten for one reason or another.

It wasn’t something he was especially proud of. The aftermath had been horrifying, worrying that the girl in question had fallen pregnant. Now he sat down, thinking he may as well now that he was here, and started to fill out the form in block capitals as requested.

Later, much later, when he was sitting on Feuilly’s sofa, wrapped up in a blanket, eating pizza while Monty Python played on the TV in the background, back in the safety and privacy of his best mate’s company, he admitted that it had been the longest half hour of his life.

He began to think back on every person that he had ever slept with. It wasn’t a long list but it wasn’t especially short either. Thoughts began to creep into his head; oh god, what if he was positive? Would he have to do what poor Nic had done? Get in contact with all his ex-girlfriends and warn them?

He found himself holding Courf’s hand, to comfort himself as much as to comfort his friend. Courf had shot him a weak smile and then they had been called in for their results.

When Courfeyrac had come out crying he had started to his feet, pulling the man into a hug, promising him that it would be ok. That the prognosis these days was so much better. That they all loved him and would stand by him no matter what. They’d get through this somehow.

+

“Negative,” Bahorel said, as soon as Feuilly opened his front door. Feuilly barely had a moment to process the information before those strong arms were thrown around his neck, nearly throttling him. “We’re both fucking negative.”

He held on to Feuilly, breathing in that delicious fresh scent, feeling it fill his lungs, relishing every breath, as though he would fall off the earth if he ever let go.

+

Courf had continued to cry all the way out of the clinic and onto the tube, earning them a number of funny looks which neither of them gave a shit about.

“I promise, here and now, I’m never having sex again,” he sniffed, hand shaking as he accepted a tissue from a particularly worried-looking old lady. Bahorel pulled him into a tight bear-hug.

“Mate, you and I both know that’s not true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel and Courf are bro's.
> 
> Not much more to add, except to say it's not a trope - its worth doing!


	12. An Honorable Fellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Courf/ Jehan related interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter very nearly didn't happen. I've been sitting on it for over a week and it has been completely re-written. Huge thanks to Sarah (purple_embroidery) for reading it and giving me hope that it wasn't the worst thing I'd ever written (hey - I'm totally selling this to you aren't I!)
> 
> and of course to Cat for a) listening to me moan extensively and b) actually salvaging the damn thing so that I feel it can finally be presented here for your enjoyment.
> 
> Now, the important bit.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING FOR UNWANTED SEXUAL ATTENTION VERGING ON HARRASSMENT

The sound of the slap echoed throughout the living room and Feuilly instinctively started forward to grab Jehan’s arm, though whether to comfort or restrain he couldn’t be sure. It was horrible to see his friend in pain but he knew poor Jehan would regret his behaviour tomorrow. But right now the man in his arms was angry, shouting and trembling, his usually calm exterior completely shaken apart. It was horrible to witness.

“You are not the centre of the fucking universe!” Jehan bellowed, his voice cracking with the strain and the volume and the sheer pain of it all. The target of his tirade, the victim of that slap, stood perfectly still, eyes on the floor, face turned slightly to the side from where the poet’s hand had connected with it. _Courfeyrac_.

+

The evening had started fairly innocuously. For once, Bahorel and Feuilly were having a quiet night in. The last three weeks had been unbelievably stressful for both of them and there had been absolutely no time for movie nights or drinks down the pub. Bahorel had somehow managed to forget about three essays which had all needed to be handed in the day before. Then there was the now ex-girlfriend who had been flooding Bahorel’s phone with snippy, passive-aggressive text messages at all hours of the night. It was one of Bahorel’s less successful relationships and it had ended with relief all round.

Feuilly was stressed by the late snow. Snow at the end of March was about as catastrophic as it got in the horticultural sector. Apart from making the commute a complete nightmare, especially once the snow had been compacted down into brown ice that was impossible to walk on, it made his job hell. The cold cut through his old coat and his fingers were chapped and red raw. His saplings died. The ice caused damage to footpaths. Grass turned to mud.

Bahorel listened to his mate’s griping and moaning with good humour, arms folded as he leant against the kitchen counter in Feuilly and Jehan’s flat, simply happy to not have to worry about word counts or double lined spacing for the foreseeable future. He hadn’t had time to hit the gym in over a month, something he planned to remedy tomorrow morning, but for now he watched Feuilly chop onions while a frying pan warmed on the stove.

He would have offered to help but he had already broken one glass trying to pour himself a beer so Feuilly had told him to stand there and not move, and something in the glint of Feuilly’s eye told him that now was a good time to embrace this hitherto undiscovered ability to do as he was told. Anyway, Feuilly kept grinning over at him, and it was almost impossible for Bahorel to remain in a bad mood. They hadn’t had a night in front of the TV for a ridiculously long time; too long.

“Where’s the happy couple then?” Bahorel asked, looking cautiously round the kitchen and across the empty living room as though expecting Jehan and Matty to stumble into view at any moment.

Feuilly snorted, chucking in some peppers to join the onions in the pan.

“No fear, Jehan had a late shift at the shop and then he’s supposed to be meeting Matty at a bar somewhere.”

Bahorel grunted in response, eyeing what Feuilly was constructing with suspicion.

“Honestly, I love the guy loads, and it is great to see him happy, but I’m sure he doesn’t have to be quite so nauseatingly cute about it,” Feuilly chuckled.

Bahorel jumped slightly as he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He fished it out and stared down at the screen in confusion; it was a text from Courfeyrac, reading simply “5”.

“What do you think that’s about?” he queried, holding the phone up for Feuilly’s inspection. The guy shrugged, emptying a tin of tomatoes into the pan, not entirely fussed one way or the other. Bahorel glanced back down at his phone. It could have been a mistake of course, or maybe a drunk text, although it was a little early in the evening for that, even for a Friday.

In the past two months, Bahorel and Courfeyrac had become even closer friends. Courf had always made time for his mates before, but now it was even more noticeable. He no longer disappeared half way through the evening, his attention didn’t wander around whichever bar the group was gathered in. It made a nice change.

Now that Combeferre was spending more time on school placements and Enjolras had practically moved into the library due to their end-of-year exams looming into view, Courfeyrac and Bahorel had been thrown together more than ever. But tonight, Courf was meant to be on a rare night out with Combeferre.

“Just ring him, if it’s that much of a mystery!” Feuilly laughed, chucking a tea towel at his head. Bahorel threw it back in retaliation before dialling Courf’s number.

“Hi Mum!” Courf answered the phone, talking quickly before Bahorel had a chance to speak. Bahorel paused, unsure about the nature of the greeting. It sounded like Courf needed rescuing from something. He looked over to Feuilly who was still stirring the contents of the pan.

“Yeah it’s really loud in here, hang on I’ll take you outside.” There were some muffled noises in the background. It sounded like Courf was inside a crowded bar of some sort and Bahorel waited patiently for him to move somewhere quieter. He shot a puzzled look at Feuilly. 

The noise in the background subsided and Courf’s voice came back on the line, though with none of the calm cheeriness from before.

“Oh my god help me!” Courf gasped, his voice filled with panic.

“Hey, calm down, Courf, what’s the issue?” Bahorel replied, gesturing pointlessly with his hands. Feuilly’s head snapped up at the change in Bahorel’s tone, his forehead wrinkling with concern. 

“Feuilly is going to kill me, that’s if Jehan doesn’t get here first -” Courf was babbling, his words barely audible. Bahorel looked over to where Feuilly was still cooking, the guy glancing up every so often, a quizzical expression on his face.

“Chill, Feuilly’s here with me and he’s not going to kill anyone,” he saw Feuilly smirk darkly at the pan, but the look swiftly disappeared as he saw the set of Bahorel’s shoulders. “Just take a deep breath and tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Bahorel was good in a crisis. He listened gravely as Courf explained the mess he had found himself in.

+

Combeferre was celebrating the end of another school placement, inviting his housemates to join him for a few drinks. Enjolras politely declined but Courfeyrac had readily agreed. The two friends decided to hit the pub, have a few drinks and then decide whether or not they wanted to move on to a club.

They had been to two pubs already, and had only been in this bar for a few minutes, Combeferre going off to order the first round of drinks while Courf minded the table. He had been flicking through his phone, meaning to send a text to Bahorel, when a rough hand landed on his arse, making him jump a mile in the air. 

Apart from the fact that the slap had hurt, however teasingly it may have been intended, Courf was not in the mood for body contact right now. He turned round to reject the advances of whoever it was who had bestowed their most unwelcome attentions upon him, when he found himself being pulled into someone’s arms. He struggled instinctively against the suddenly scary grip, his heart pounding painfully in his chest, wondering where the hell Combeferre was when you needed him.

He was just about to open his mouth to shout for his friend when he was released. He snapped around in his chair to face his attacker and was appalled to look up into a pair of familiar eyes.

Matty was drunk, there was no question of that; Courf could smell it. But the eyes that stared at him were pinpoint sharp as he plopped himself down in the seat opposite, grabbing Courf’s hand.

“So nice to see you out again. I missed your smile, beautiful,” Matty greeted him, grinning wildly. Courf recoiled slightly, trying to arrange his face into a neutral expression, glancing over Matty’s shoulder to the bar, searching desperately for any sign of Combeferre.

“You all by yourself? Never mind, I’ll keep you company.” The guy settled himself at the table, dark eyes glinting, and Courf swallowed nervously, suddenly feeling an awful lot like prey sighted by a predator.

“My god you’re fucking pretty, you know that?” Jehan’s boyfriend leant forward towards Courf who was far too shocked, too horrified at what was happening to reply.

“Your fucking shoulders and your arse, man, your fucking arse. Fuck, I just want to bite it.” Matty licked his lips before taking a sip of his drink.

This was so inappropriate that Courfeyrac felt vaguely sick. This was his friend's boyfriend but the guy was behaving appallingly. He was beyond flirting, he was practically harassing Courfeyrac, who had absolutely no idea how to deal with this. He had rejected people before, girls and guys who had flirted with him and he’d smiled and let them down gently. But this was different. There was no scenario in which this would end well.

Courf risked another glance over at the bar where Combeferre was leaning casually, chatting comfortably with a girl. As Matty continued to talk, leering at him, Courf slowly moved his hand to his pocket around his phone. He knew Ferre was the last person he dialled so, pressing a few buttons from memory, he dialled Ferre from his pocket.

He knew he had been successful when he saw Ferre shift. But to his horror the man removed his phone from his pocket and rejected the call without looking at the screen. Courf could have killed him by the power of his stare alone.

“Everything ok?” Matty interrupted his train of thought. Courf rearranged his face, trying to smile while stemming the tide of rising panic. This was so miserably unfair. Poor Jehan deserved better than this. 

Courf wondered if this was a one-off, if Matty was just drunk and confused. Not that it was an acceptable excuse, but it was better to think that this was the first time the guy had so inappropriately hit on someone in a bar behind Jehan’s back than consider the alternative.

Feeling rather desperate, he pulled out his phone on the pretence of checking the time and quickly fired off a random text to Bahorel, hoping the guy would take the hint and call him back. He could have cried with relief when his phone started to ring some moments later.

+

Bahorel listened to Courf gravely.

“Stay where you are,” he advised. “We’re on our way.”

+

Courf sighed, stuffing his phone back into his pocket, wondering what to do now. He shivered, cursing at his stupidity as he realised his coat was still in the bar along with his keys, his wallet and, most importantly, his housemate. Reluctantly, he returned inside. 

He made a beeline for the bathroom, taking his time, splashing some cold water on his face. But he couldn’t hide in the bathroom forever and so finally he re-entered the bar.

Initially he was relieved to see the table he had been sitting at was now vacant, Matty nowhere to be seen. He moved back towards it, searching the bar for any sign of Combeferre, when an arm slipped round his waist.

“There you are. I thought you’d run away,” Matty purred into Courf’s ear. Enough was enough; Courf took hold of the arm and forcefully removed it.

“Stop it,” he snapped, turning to face the man in the dim light of the bar. “You’re Jehan’s boyfriend.”

Matty’s grin sent a chill down his spine and Courf unconsciously stepped backwards.

“Jehan isn’t here,” the man responded, voice low as he crowded back into Courf’s personal space. He leaned forward to mutter into Courf’s ear, his breath uncomfortably hot against Courf’s neck.

“Anyway, it’s only flirting. A bit of flirting never hurt anyone.”

Courf pulled back, flushed with anger.

“I’d love to know what Jehan would say about that,” he growled, but to his surprise, rather than looking worried or angry, Matty threw his head back at laughed. Somehow, that was worse.

“Oh please!” he spat, his voice mirthless. “I know all about you, Cour-fey-rac,” he drawled. “No one, least of all Jehan, is ever going to believe that _I_ came on to _you_!”

Courf felt his blood run cold. Matty was right; no one was ever going to believe him. Jehan could walk in right now, find Matty all over him and would assume that Courf had made the first move and no one would ever find his body. His shoulders slumped in defeat. Then a voice rang out behind him, the most welcome and heavenly voice he could imagine hearing right now.

“I just might.”

Courf turned with undisguised relief to see Combeferre. The man had his sleeves rolled up and the most terrifying glare on his face Courf had ever seen. It made his heart skip a little to see his friend so angry. 

Matty looked genuinely surprised to see another of Jehan’s friends privy to the situation and for a moment he looked unsure, glancing between Combeferre’s face of stony fury to Courf’s more emotional but equally angry expression.

“Courfeyrac and I,” he started, and Combeferre made a noise like a snorting bull. Matty sensibly shut his mouth, realising that this particular guy wasn’t going to buy whatever it was he was going to say to excuse his behaviour.

“I suggest,” Combeferre continued, his tone painfully dry, “that you back the fuck up and get the hell away from my friend here.” 

Courf’s eyes widened. He couldn’t remember ever having heard Combeferre swear in anger before. He glanced back to Matty and if he hadn’t still been feeling horribly sick by the whole situation he would have smirked with satisfaction at the pure terror in Matty’s eyes.

“And you may absolutely rest assured that we will be telling Jehan.”

There was a silence while the two men regarded each other.

“Evening, gentlemen.”

Courf exhaled audibly as Bahorel loomed into view, eyes dark, face set to match Combeferre’s glare. Feuilly followed, stepping round Bahorel and Combeferre, striding over to where Courf stood. For a minute Courf seriously thought the redhead was going to swing at him, but instead the hand that was extended landed harmlessly but firmly on his shoulder, steering him away from the situation, towards the door of the pub.

He cast a glance over his shoulder, catching a last glimpse of Matty, who up until that point had obviously been considering his chances. The man had now visibly deflated and Courf was pleased to see Matty’s head drop just before Feuilly pushed him out of the door. 

The next moment Courf wheezed as Feuilly slammed him up against the wall of the pub, a strong forearm pinned across his collarbone, holding him in place. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the doormen jerk his head in interest. He held up a hand to show that he was ok, that he didn’t require any help.

“Tell me,” Feuilly said, his calm voice belying the anger that Courf could feel in the way Feuilly’s fist was curled round his shirt.

“I swear, I did nothing. I was sitting quietly waiting for Combeferre and he approached me. As soon as that happened I called Combeferre but he wouldn’t answer his phone. Then I texted Bahorel.”

“Feuilly.”

The fist in Courf’s shirt loosened as Bahorel appeared, followed by Combeferre who was clutching Courfeyrac’s coat. Feuilly shot a silent look at Bahorel who merely jerked his head.

“Fine,” Feuilly stepped back, before spitting aggressively on the pavement. He reached into his jeans pocket, extracting a packet of cigarettes. The angry whizz of the lighter tore the strained silence between them as he attempted to light the slightly crumpled cigarette between his lips.

“Shall we go back to ours?” Combeferre asked, arms still folded. There was mute nodding from the sombre group before they trudged off in the direction of the bus stop.

+

Enjolras was taking advantage of the empty house, papers spread over the coffee table while he attempted to organise his notes. It wasn’t often that he got the place to himself. Courf was loitering around a lot more these days and then there was the competition for space with Combeferre’s planning and marking. They would have to make sure the next flat they rented together had a bigger table.

He looked up with a certain amount of disgruntled surprise when he heard the front door open, eyes flashing to the clock because surely it wasn’t that late. 

“Hello?” he called out cautiously. A moment later Combeferre entered, polishing his glasses, his face flushed. He was followed by a very dejected Courfeyrac, a silent Bahorel and finally Feuilly who looked positively murderous.

“What happened?” he asked, looking to Combeferre for answers. There were a lot of awkward looks going on. Feuilly was glaring at Courf who was shifting unconsciously under the force of the glare. Bahorel elbowed the redhead in the ribs but the glare merely transferred from one man to the other without any alteration in its intensity.

“Seriously, is someone going to tell me what’s going on?” Enjolras persevered. The atmosphere was thick and it confused him to see so many of his friends looking so upset and angry. 

“Ferre?” His friend cleared his throat, looking pointedly at Courfeyrac.

“There has been an unfortunate incident,” Combeferre began, but before he could finish, the doorbell rang. It continued to ring as though someone was leaning on it. Enjolras clicked in annoyance, heading out to see who the hell it was making such a racket.

“Jehan –” he began, surprised to see the man on his doorstep, but then he was being shoved out of the way, hard. He was aware of a flash of strawberry-blonde, of the scent of cold air and cigarettes, of the wall at his back, and Jehan’s angry voice. Enjolras recovered himself, heading back to the living room to try and understand what the hell was going on.

He entered the room just in time to see Jehan march over to Courfeyrac and slap him hard across the face.

“You are not the centre of the fucking universe!”

+

Feuilly held onto Jehan tightly, as if he could hold his friend together by sheer willpower alone. Darling, sweet Jehan who had been sobbing for a good twenty minutes. 

He had dragged Jehan away from the ugly scene in the living room, wrestled the distraught man into a taxi with Bahorel’s help and taken him back to their flat. The spoiled dinner was still in the pan, cold and abandoned. 

He had managed to ascertain between the harsh sobs and angry babbling that Matty had told Jehan what had happened, albeit a slightly less than truthful version which, really, should have surprised nobody.

As to the truth of the matter, Jehan had not been at all receptive of Feuilly’s attempts to correct his impressions of the night’s events. One fact and one fact alone was clear enough; Matty was not the guy Jehan had thought him to be.

“And why Courfeyrac!” Jehan had cried out, burying his head into Feuilly’s shoulder, pounding his fists into his friend’s back. “Why of all people did it have to be him? Is the universe mocking me, Feuilly? What did I do?!”

Feuilly had taken the abuse, choosing not to answer Jehan’s rhetorical exclamations of pain. Instead he tried to comfort and reassure and just be there, just hold the young man because that was all he could offer. Words were an unsatisfactory instrument right now. Holding him close was a much better response.

Now they were sitting in the dark on Feuilly’s bed, wrapped up in his duvet smoking even though they had a rule about smoking in bedrooms but as Feuilly had put it, “Seriously, fuck the rules, it’s too fucking cold to go out on the balcony right now.”

“Jehan,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to his flatmate’s hair. “I know this isn’t going to help at all, but if I believed for one moment that Courf set out to hurt you this evening, Bahorel and I would have murdered him in cold blood, probably in that pub and with Combeferre’s helpful co-operation. You know that right?”

“I know,” he sniffed, snuggling into Feuilly’s side.

“Combeferre was there. He heard what Matty said. Courf didn’t do anything wrong,” he paused as he heard Jehan sigh, the man’s breath shuddering a little as he attempted to stop crying.

“He’s a good man. His heart is in the right place,” he paused, waiting for any sign of disagreement or dissent from Jehan but none came. “It just gets him into trouble some times.”

They sat in silence for a bit longer, Feuilly rubbing circles into Jehan’s shoulders. He wanted to rub away all the stress and all the pain. He was so angry he could throttle someone.

“What’s wrong with me Feuilly?” Jehan spoke at last, breaking into Feuilly’s train of thought, his voice calm and measured, trembling only a little in the darkness. Feuilly sighed heavily.

“There’s nothing wrong with you. Some people are just arseholes. Matty was an arsehole and that is neither your fault nor your problem.”

Feuilly leaned forward to kiss Jehan’s temple, but the man moved in his arms; not away, but towards him so that it was their lips that met in a soft, chaste kiss. Feuilly made to pull back but Jehan chased his mouth, grumbling a little at Feuilly’s attempt to avoid him. He made a satisfied sound when Feuilly acquiesced, and they shared small, quiet kisses for a while.

He let Jehan control it, following the young man’s lead. If this was how Jehan wanted to be comforted then Feuilly would not deny him. It was this more than anything that hurt Feuilly in his heart. He and Jehan hadn’t shared any kisses at all in months. Jehan, who had always been so free with his kisses for all their friends, had embraced strict monogamy for Matty’s sake. Feuilly redirected his train of thought, the anger threatening to return.

Finally, they broke apart.

“You should probably apologise to Courf,” he said at last, wondering if perhaps he should leave this conversation for the next day. But the image of Courfeyrac standing in his living room, just standing there looking so unbelievably sad, just standing there while Jehan screamed at him, not even attempting to defend himself; it burned in Feuilly’s mind and grated against his sense of right.

He felt Jehan tense briefly in his arms and he wondered whether he would pull away, but the moment passed and his flatmate relaxed again in his arms.

“I know. I will.”

Feuilly wondered what was going through Jehan’s mind as they sat together in the dark, seeking comfort in each other’s body heat.

“Hold me, Feuilly,” he mumbled into Feuilly’s chest.

“Whatever you need.”

It didn’t take long for Jehan’s breathing to level out as he dropped off to sleep, probably from sheer emotional exhaustion. Feuilly was awake for a bit longer, trying to manoeuvre himself into a more comfortable position as gently as possible without disturbing the man asleep in his arms.

Tomorrow was going to be a bad day. In fact the next week would probably be a write-off. Jehan wasn’t going to be ok for a long time. But they would deal with that tomorrow. Right now, they just needed each other and a lot of sleep.

+

The next time the friends met, in the student union bar on a Thursday afternoon, there was an awkward silence as Courfeyrac visibly paled while Jehan shuffled his feet.

Combeferre had dragged Enjolras away to the bar and Bahorel had taken Feuilly outside for a cigarette break. Through the window, Feuilly let out a sigh of relief as he saw the two men first exchange words, then a look and finally a hug.

“Thank fuck for that,” muttered Bahorel, watching over his shoulder and Feuilly couldn’t help but smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a point to all this. I wasn't just playing with the "hey, Courf is a sexual player" trope - I promise!
> 
> The more eagle-eyed among you will remember from Postcards Enjolras recalling this row when he's trying to sort his memory out.
> 
> The next two chapters are going to be fun... I can't wait :-p


	13. The Good Natured Mortal Touches A Generous Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which your patience is rewarded; the boys go on holiday with varying degrees of success and we find out just how Enjolras knew his ex boyfriend was a famous artist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I hated the last chapter (but it was necessary) that's how much I love this chapter. Yes, it's 7500 words long, but they're 7500 brilliant words (and the modesty comes with it). I bring you smut and fun and a smattering of angst.
> 
> Many thanks to Cat for her awesome beta skills.

_May_

When Feuilly entered the flat he was struck by how quiet it was. He checked his watch. It was after seven in the evening so Jehan should have been home about two hours ago.

“Jehan?”

He chucked his bag down and moved through the hallway towards Jehan’s door, pausing for a moment before knocking and trying the handle. He stuck his head into the empty room. No Jehan. Then a noise from the bathroom, a splashing of water, caught his attention.

“Jehan?” He tapped on the bathroom door but received only silence in response. 

“It’s me. Can I come in?”

He wasn’t expecting an answer and so wasn’t entirely surprised when he heard only more splashing. 

“I’m going to open the door. If you want me to fuck off you just have to say.” The door opened easily because, of course, Jehan hadn’t locked it.

The room was filled with steam and it took Feuilly a moment to adjust to the humidity. Finally, he could make out the silhouette of a body stretched out in the bath, hooked ankles resting on the taps. Jehan’s long strawberry blonde hair drifted in the hazy lavender water, reminiscent of Ophelia. A curl of smoke wound its way to the heavens from the gauloises between his lips. His eyes were closed, the lids a soft purple reflected in the light creeping through the frosted glass of the window.

Feuilly was so focused on that wholly beautiful face that he completely failed to notice that Jehan had entered the bath fully clothed, the fabric of his white shirt casting an eerie shadow in the water.

“You can get in if you like.”

Jehan hadn’t moved, hadn’t even opened his eyes. He exhaled, the smoke carving a pattern in the damp air of the bathroom. Feuilly pondered for a moment, before shrugging his shoulders. He stripped off his shirt (it was one of two and the other was already in the wash, thank you) before peeling off his socks and stepping up towards the tub. He patted down his pockets, making sure his phone definitely wasn’t there.

Hearing his approach, Jehan lifted his hand to remove the cigarette before leaning forward in clear indication that Feuilly should slot in behind him. Feuilly obediently stepped in, first one leg and then the other, ignoring the scalding sensation of the water against his skin.

It was bizarre standing in the bath in his work trousers. He was briefly reminded of swimming lessons at school and that ridiculous drill that involved diving for a brick in your pyjamas. He quickly crouched down, his legs easily fitting either side of Jehan’s lithe body. He felt his friend shift slightly in the water so that he was almost sitting on Feuilly’s legs. He leaned back, resting against Feuilly’s chest, his head resting on Feuilly’s shoulder. Automatically, Feuilly raised his arms to wrap around his friend, holding him close. 

The water was deliciously warm. Jehan held up his gauloises in invitation and Feuilly accepted it from his fingers, taking a long drag.

“Bad day?” He enquired, casually. He knew Jehan liked his baths; the young man loved to wallow in the softly scented water, singing, sometimes writing and usually smoking. Sitting in silence was new.

But the last four weeks had all been bad days for Jehan, ever since the messy break-up with Matty. Jehan had slept in Feuilly’s bed for the first week, curled round him tightly, almost childishly, and at least twice Feuilly had woken in the night to Jehan’s muffled sobs being choked into the pillow next to him.

Then had come a period of eerie silence, where Jehan had returned to his own bed and had gone to work and attended lectures as though everything was normal except that he said nothing apart from please and thank you. His bedroom door remained closed and locked to the world, and not even Feuilly could break in.

Finally Jehan had left his sanctuary, apparently re-entering the world. When Feuilly had asked him to join in down the pub with Bahorel he had agreed and they had spent a pleasant evening playing pool. Feuilly had hoped they had turned a corner. But now Jehan was lying fully clothed in silence in the bath. He rested his hands lightly on his friend’s arms as though through such contact he would be able to read the young man’s mind.

“Did you want to talk about it?” he asked tentatively. He held the gauloises up to Jehan’s lips. After a long drag, Jehan exhaled heavily before answering.

“Two funerals. Seven brides, twelve bridesmaids, six mothers and three mothers-in-law to be. Three cheating boyfriends. One cheating husband. And a crying lady who wouldn’t stop crying.”

Feuilly pressed a kiss to the back of Jehan’s head before turning to stub out the cigarette in the ash tray balanced precariously on the side of the bath.

“Just, hold me, would you?” Jehan’s voice was very quiet, his head turned, resting heavily against Feuilly.

“Of course,” Feuilly murmured, tightening his hold on his friend, fingers rubbing lightly against Jehan’s damp skin. “Anything you need. Just ask, you know that.”

They sat together in a relaxed silence, Feuilly’s thumbs running lightly over the soaked cotton of Jehan’s shirt. Jehan took a slightly deeper breath before twisting round, looking up at Feuilly, almost upside down from his position against his chest. Those soft green eyes looked up at him sadly, his lower lip almost pouting. Without any thought at all, Feuilly leant down to brush those lips with his own.

It was an uncomfortable angle, him stretching down while Jehan stretched up and round, but they made it work, both shifting to accommodate the other. The chaste kiss swiftly deepened, Jehan rotating in the water, turning round to sit on Feuilly’s lap, hands splayed across his chest to anchor him as he leaned forward with a beautiful desperation. Feuilly returned those hot, damp kisses with his own, biting down on that inviting lower lip, enjoying the soft moan it produced.

“Please, Feuilly,” Jehan whispered. Feuilly understood. Without breaking away, he managed to move, to bring himself to his feet and then they were both standing, dripping wet, Jehan fully clothed, Feuilly in his trousers, standing but still wrapped up in each other. Feuilly chuckled, finally breaking away so that he could get out of the bath without falling over.

Once standing, he held out his hand. Jehan took it, following him through the bathroom door across to Feuilly’s room. They looked at each other for a moment, Feuilly searching for any sign of reticence, Jehan offering a reassuring smile of certainty. Then Feuilly cupped that delicate chin and kissed him once again.

They abandoned their sodden clothes on the floor, Feuilly wrapping himself around his friend’s skinny frame, knowing that Jehan liked to be consumed, loved to feel as much skin against his own as possible when he was like this.

“What do you want, love?” It was impossible not to be gentle with Jehan right now. Feuilly was so used to rough fucks, quick fucks and fun fucks but for some reason this was different. Jehan was letting him in and right now he deserved to be treated like a fucking princess and Feuilly was just the guy for the job.

Jehan bit into Feuilly’s shoulder, his eyes scrunched shut as though thinking caused him actual pain.

“Please may you fuck me?”

Oh dear god, fucking Prouvaire and his insistence on proper grammar even in bed. Feuilly growled, imprinting his own teeth on that perfect skin where the neck met the collar bone.

“Yes,” he moaned, pushing Jehan towards the bed. Jehan grinned at him then. It was so good to see the young man no longer frowning or sad, lost in his own head. That grin went straight to Feuilly’s gut.

Jehan was terrifyingly efficient. No sooner had Feuilly agreed, than the other man had turned to root through his housemate’s bedside table, extracting lube and a condom, pressing them into Feuilly’s hands with a smirk. Jehan then scooted back on the bed, folding his legs, knees pressed to chest, waiting to be told where to be.

The bed dipped slightly as Feuilly joined him, setting the stuff down to one side for a moment so he could steal a rough kiss from those divine red lips.

“How’d you want it, babe?” Feuilly rested his forehead against Jehan’s, searching the boy’s eyes for answers. He seemed to consider for a moment before pressing one last kiss to the corner of Feuilly’s mouth. Then he slowly turned over, pressing his hands into the sheet, raising his arse invitingly.

“Fuck me, Feuilly,” he breathed, his voice stuttering slightly. Feuilly took in the glorious sight of Jehan’s back, the milky expanse of skin. He pressed a kiss between the bony shoulder blades, before trailing his tongue down Jehan’s spine, lifting the boy’s arse up so he could lick at the little pink hole, enjoying how Jehan squirmed beneath him. Jehan made some frankly gorgeous noises.

Jehan hadn’t let Feuilly top before, although it was something they had sometimes talked about over a post-coital cigarette. To now have this beautiful creature beneath him, inviting him to fuck him, was just delicious and Feuilly was determined to give Jehan the best he could.

Jehan let out a gasp as Feuilly worked a slicked-up finger between his cheeks. He gasped slightly at the cold, and then Feuilly pressed in, enjoying the little whine the action produced.

“Just relax, babe, I’ve got you,” he murmured, noticing that Jehan’s eyes were screwed tight. He almost stopped when Jehan jerked his head in response, but then he exhaled, his hips moving against Feuilly’s finger as though of their own accord, seeking some friction against the bedsheets, some release, moaning softly.

As Feuilly scissored a second finger into him, Jehan began to talk.

“Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,” he breathed, face pressed against the pillows, words shallow but still audible to Feuilly. 

“Saying that now – ah,” he hissed as Feuilly brushed against his spot, scrunching up his nose at the interruption, before continuing, “That now you are not as you were.”

Feuilly continued to stretch Jehan, fingers twisting in his warm heat, preparing him, while Jehan continued with what was obviously a poem, though not one Feuilly recognised. He remembered the first time he’d blown Jehan in the backroom of the florist; Jehan had spent the entire episode reciting Lady Macbeth’s soliloquy. He quickly learned that this was Situation Normal for his poetically minded compatriot. It seemed as though the man couldn’t help but talk during sex, especially if he was stressed or upset. Today had evidently taken its toll. Feuilly was more than happy to let Jehan fuck it all out.

“When you had changed from the one who was all to me, ah fuck, Feuilly,” he hissed, making the redhead smirk because he was fairly certain those weren’t the words, as Jehan keened against him.

“Please just fuck me, I’m ready, please,” Jehan actually opened his eyes, looking up over his shoulder and Feuilly knew he didn’t have a hope. He shivered slightly, his skin cool now that the bathwater had mostly dried. Withdrawing his fingers, he rolled on a condom before placing his hands on his friend’s hips.

“Oh, please,” Jehan’s eyes were closed again as he waited. Slowly, because even though he’d done a good job on the prep, Feuilly was not about to fuck this up, he pressed forward, sinking into Jehan’s tight heat.

Fuck it was glorious. Jehan was so damn tight around him.

“Jesus fuck!” he swore quietly as Jehan pushed his hips back, welcoming Feuilly further in. Sex with Jehan was like a riddle. He was quick yet agonisingly slow. He was strong but not always aggressive. He was oddly possessive, but then strangely distant.

Taking a deep breath, Feuilly pulled back til only the tip of his cock remained inside, before thrusting forward once more. He was rewarded by Jehan’s sharp exhale, feeling him clench round his cock as his hips came flush with the delicate curve of Jehan’s arse cheeks. He buried himself deep, enjoying the overwhelming sensation of fucking this delightful soul.

Jehan was talking again as he writhed and moaned and pushed back against Feuilly’s cock.

“Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then, Standing as when I drew near to the town, _jesus fuck, Feuilly, fuck me harder_ , Where you would wait for me,” Feuilly leant forward, Jehan’s words washing over him as he bit down hard onto soft, pale skin, pressing his bitten finger-nails into Jehan’s hips, fucking forward slowly and deeply.

Suddenly he pulled out, ignoring Jehan’s indignant gasp. He turned the boy round to face him, silencing him mid-line with a brutal kiss, all teeth and biting, hoisting Jehan’s long legs over his shoulders. He felt Jehan’s hands rub up his arms to his shoulders, linking round his neck, as he re-entered Jehan, this time with the added benefit of being able to watch the face of his lover beneath him.

Jehan threw his head back against the pillow, eyes closed in ecstasy as his hips moved to match Feuilly’s thrusts, his lips slightly parted and kissed red. He was an absolute fucking vision to behold. The taste of Jehan, the touch of Jehan. He could get used to this.

He came, Jehan following not that far behind, coating their chests in ropes of white. Feuilly sank forward, boneless upon the bed, Jehan breathing hard beside him. He pressed a final kiss to the base of Jehan’s sweaty neck where the neck and shoulder met, before drawing Jehan into his arms.

“Better?”

“You always make it better, Feuilly.”

+

_July_

Enjolras sat back in his chair, hands clutching the arm rest as the flight attendant began to run through the safety procedures. Beside him, Combeferre gave him a reassuring smile. Courf shot him a brilliant smile before turning to look out of the window, even if they were only taxiing down the runway at low speed.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, first deciding that the three of them should head off on holiday, and then, in the interests of fairness, having everyone write down their ideal holiday destination on a piece of paper before asking one of their friends to draw it out of a hat.

Enjolras had wanted to go camping in Devon. He had grown up in that county and wanted to go back to see it again with his grown-up eyes. He wanted to drive across Dartmoor and climb some Tors. He wanted to take Combeferre to Oakhampton Castle. He wanted to tell ghost stories around a camp fire because Devon and ghosts were practically synonymous.

He was fairly sure Combeferre had written Berlin on his piece of paper. He knew his best friend was interested in the city, especially in the context of twentieth century history.

But neither of those things had been drawn. Bossuet was the first of their friends they had bumped into and it had fallen to him to make the draw. Enjolras could tell it wasn’t his piece of paper from the way it was folded. His heart sank; they were going to Florida.

“You’re not still worried are you?” Combeferre muttered in a low voice, as the plane came to a halt at the bottom of the runway. Enjolras shook his head in response. Even if he was, it was a bit late now.

America; Enjolras was going to America. As soon as Bossuet had read out the destination, while Courf was crowing and hopping and punching the air, Combeferre had laid a patient and welcome hand on his shoulder as though he knew what his friend was thinking.

“It’s the opposite end of America,” Combeferre had said later that night, when they were home and curled up under blankets on the sofa, hands wrapped round mugs of tea. Courf was out drinking, celebrating with Bahorel, and they had the house to themselves. Enjolras sipped his tea, trying to sort out the mess in his head.

There were one thousand three hundred miles between Florida and Rhode Island. The chances of accidentally bumping into his ex-boyfriend were next to remote. But the fact remained he was about to be in the same country as Aire for the first time in two years.

“You think I’m being ridiculous,” he muttered flatly. Combeferre sighed patiently.

“No, Enjolras, I don’t think you’re being ridiculous. I know it’s hard for you. And I know it has been two years, but those feelings were very real and ran very deep. I’m sure it isn’t great when they get disturbed, especially if you weren’t expecting it.”

That was true. Never in a million years did he think Courf would suggest going to America on holiday. Luckily the money wasn’t too much of an issue. Enjolras’s parents were more than happy to shell out – Enjolras had, somewhat uncharitably, called it guilt money, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The three of them had managed to get a reasonably good deal on the internet; it would involve them sharing a room, and two of them sharing a bed but that was no hardship.

As the weeks had progressed, he had even begun to look forward to it. The weather in England had been horrendous; constantly damp and grey. A good dose of sun and heat with his two best friends would be just what was needed before starting his third and final year at university.

Combeferre squeezed his hand as the plane took off; it was going to be fine.

+

“It can’t be that much further,” Bahorel growled, trying to peer through the windscreen at the road ahead. Feuilly lifted his nose out of the Ordinance Survey map briefly, checked his watch, before looking back. Jehan stared serenely out the window in the back seat, one delicate fingertip tracing the path of a droplet of water down the glass.

“Two more turns to the left, one to the right and it’s the lane on the left hand side,” Feuilly repeated in monotone. Bahorel growled but kept driving.

They had been on the road for five hours, in less than clement conditions. They had crossed the border into Wales over an hour ago and now they were looking for the house they had rented. They hadn’t seen another building for about ten minutes and the road surface was getting rockier. Behind them, Joly and Bossuet’s car flashed its headlights, before Jehan’s phone started to ring.

“Feuilly says it’s just up here,” Jehan patiently explained. Bahorel snarled a less than complimentary comment about Bossuet’s navigating skills which Jehan neglected to pass on to whoever it was on the end of the line. Suddenly Feuilly jerked his head.

“There!” he called out, pointing somewhat unnecessarily towards a battered green signpost at the side of the road. Next to it was a steep lane leading down. As Bahorel turned into it, they could see at the bottom a small house.

In response to being abandoned by “the rich boys” as Bahorel had named them, the remaining friends retaliated by organising their own holiday. Joly and Bossuet had been planning to visit Wales anyway, and so extended their invitation to Bahorel and Marius. Bahorel, of course, invited Feuilly and it would have been simply rude to leave Jehan behind.

Feuilly was looking forward to two weeks away from work. He was finding this summer heavy going. His workload had doubled and he had a sneaking suspicion he was going to have to quit his job at the florists soon in the name of getting some decent sleep. The invitation to Wales had been a godsend and he had agreed readily, even though he didn’t know much about Wales.

As they parked in the gravel area adjacent to the house, they peered up at the peeling paintwork with a certain amount of apprehension. It could have been the fact that it was just starting to rain, or maybe they were just tired and hungry from their journey, but all the same the building seemed a bit sorry for itself.

They climbed out of the car, joining Joly, Bossuet and Marius who were already pulling suitcases out of the boot of their car. 

“Let’s get inside, sort out rooms and then come back for the rest of the stuff, shall we?” Bahorel suggested, striding over towards the front door of the property, looking pointedly at Joly who was in charge of the keys. The man hurried forward, taking a moment to try a couple of keys in the lock before eventually finding the right one.

The door, unusually, opened onto the kitchen. As Feuilly stepped inside he was reminded of some of his previous foster families. The kitchen smelled of plastic, damp and moth balls. It was a square room, with a worn lino floor and units that had been installed in the 1970s. In the corner was a formica table, square, and only four chairs.

He strode through the room towards the door on the opposite side which led into a long living room running along one side of the house. There was a battered sofa and two high backed armchairs arranged around an old brick chimney. The windows afforded a spectacular view of the valley and he walked over to look out. As he did, there was a thud and the sound of breaking glass just behind him. He whirled round.

“Fuck,” he swore, looking down at the carpet.

“What have you done? Bahorel stuck his head in the living room, his brow crinkled in confusion. Feuilly examined the wreckage on the floor before looking up at the ceiling. Swaying slightly in the breeze was the light fitting and it was empty. The bulb was now in pieces on the floor. Evidently, the movement of someone walking beneath it had been enough to shake it loose.

“The fucking lightbulb just gave up on life,” he muttered, rooting in his pocket for something with which to clear up the mess. Finding an old envelope, he began to scoop up the worst of it. Dodgy light bulbs in dodgier light fittings; not a good start.

There was worse to come. A shout came from upstairs, where Joly and Bossuet had gone to look at the rooms. Bahorel and Feuilly jogged up the rickety stair case, closely followed by Jehan and Marius.

“There are only three rooms,” Joly muttered. “I’ve tried every door. One is the bathroom, that one’s an airing cupboard. There are two doubles and then a room with two single beds.”

Brilliant. Fan-fucking-tastic. The six boys looked at each other.

“Obviously, Boss and I can have one of the doubles…” Joly trailed off, looking at the other four. Feuilly had a sneaking suspicion how this was going to end. Marius looked appalled and Jehan was flushed pink, looking at Feuilly.

“I can share with Jehan,” he started but Bahorel huffed next to him.

“Thanks a fuckton, but I can’t fit in a single bed,” he grumbled. Feuilly sighed.

“Fine, then I guess I’m sharing with you!” He didn’t mean to snap, he really didn’t. But he was tired, bone tired. And now he had to look forward to two weeks of sharing a bed with Bahorel. The man in question frowned before shrugging and turning to stomp down the stairs, presumably to fetch the other cases out of the car.

“You ok?” Jehan whispered, squeezing Feuilly’s hand. He sighed, feeling guilty.

“Yeah, I’ll talk to him later.”

 

+

Enjolras was glad not to be driving. He sat in the back seat, Courf navigating while Ferre drove down the ramrod straight roads towards Tampa. They were staying in a standard Holiday Inn on a typical tourist strip a couple of miles away from the main theme parks. The thick, hot air had hit hard when they had exited the plane and Enjolras was glad of the car’s air conditioning. He couldn’t tell what he was looking forward to the most, diving into the shower or the swimming pool.

The hotel was nice, the staff friendly and eager to please, and their room on the complex was clean. Enjolras had agreed to share the double bed with Combeferre while Courf was happy to take the little single bed set up in the corner of the room. There was a little kitchenette and the bathroom was nearly as big as the bedroom. So far so good.

Courf had made a beeline for the swimming pool pretty much the second the concierge had taken their leave. Combeferre, ever the sensible one, had insisted on unpacking first, while Enjolras decided that a shower was just what he needed. After twenty minutes soaking under the cold spray, he flopped down on the bed, the soft sounds and cool sheets drawing him into a peaceful sleep.

Ferre woke him a few hours later. From the looks of it, he had joined Courf in the pool because he wasn’t wearing his glasses and his hair was dripping wet.

“We were thinking of heading out in a bit, find some dinner. Interested?” he asked gently. Enjolras’s stomach gurgled in response and he hauled himself out of bed to pull on some clothes.

There was an abundance of places to choose from. Neon light after neon light beckoned them in, promising them insane amounts of food at ridiculous prices. Over here, the boys were under age so no drinking, although that wasn’t going to be much of a problem as Enjolras was rarely inclined to drink and Courf had been taking it easy in recent months.

They had settled upon a little hole-in-the-wall diner, ordering burgers and fries, too tired for anything more outlandish. Enjolras listened while Courf chatted about the possibilities for the next day. The warmth in his friend’s voice made him smile. He tried to remember the last time he had seen Courfeyrac so animated.

“What are you smiling about?” Combeferre nudged his arm, smiling back at him, somewhat benevolently.

“Oh, you know. Just happy to be here,” he held up his coke and the others did the same, clinking glasses.

“Happy holidays, guys!”

“Happy holidays!” they echoed.

+

 

“At least we’re not camping,” Marius smiled round at his friends, before taking a sip of his beer.

A good point, well made. Feuilly looked out of the window of the pub over the top of his pint at the rain lashing the windows. It had rained like this every day for the four days they had been in Wales so far. For two of those days they had stayed indoors, playing cards or watching TV, occasionally despatching someone with a driving licence to the town a few miles over on a quest for more beer and snacks.

Yesterday they had attempted to visit a Bronze Age Burial Cairn site, but it was so muddy that they hadn’t gone very far from the car, returning soaking wet and squabbling over the fact that there wasn’t enough hot water for everyone to shower as soon as they got back to the house. 

Today they had decided to keep it simple, driving a few miles down to the road to a pretty little village. They had looked through some shops, stopped in at the local heritage centre and were now holed up in the pub for some warmth and good beer.

It had proven to be an excellent choice. There was a pool table and a dart board and the place was mostly empty so the boys had the run of it for the afternoon.

Bahorel grinned at Marius before taking a sip of his beer.

“Yeah but the house is something of a disaster area,” he muttered, voice low as he shot a look over to where Joly and Bossuet were playing darts. Bossuet was a decent player, even if he did have a funny way of throwing his arrows. They always looked as though they would surely plummet to the floor, but he consistently hit twenties and eighteens, occasionally doubles and the odd triple.

Feuilly snorted. Poor Joly. The kitchen was disgusting by anyone’s standards and so far the young doctor had refused to eat anything produced in there, even though they had all had a go at being liberal with the bleach to bring it up to some sort of standard.

Bahorel liked to do fry-ups in the mornings because he was on holiday and had the luxury of time to cook enough sausages and eggs to feed a small army, but Joly had remained tightlipped, preferring to buy little pots of instant porridge and using boiled water at service stations that was usually intended for milk formula.

The boys took it in turns to sit on the floor because there weren’t quite enough chairs, although Jehan was happy to sit on Feuilly if required.

Here and now, in the pub, the boys relaxed. Feuilly, Jehan, Marius and Bahorel found themselves sharing horror stories of holidays past. Bahorel got a laugh at Feuilly’s expense, mentioning the episode in Normandy where the poor guy had ended up sleeping in a bath tub.

Jehan mentioned the time he had gone to France with his parents and ended up in hospital after being bitten by something. Bahorel brought up his infamous family holiday to Spain when he was fifteen. His mother had gone to bed with sunstroke so he’d snuck out and gotten extraordinarily drunk after convincing a group of English tourists to buy alcohol for him. When his mother found him the following morning clutching the toilet bowl, whimpering and retching, he managed to convince her that he had sunstroke too.

As the others roared with laughter, Jehan nudged Marius with his elbow.

“What about you? Any disastrous family holidays?”

Marius smiled shyly, flushing behind his freckles. 

“We didn’t really go on holidays. It was just me and my grandfather. We went to the seaside when I was little, but once I got older he said older boys didn’t need to be taken to the seaside,” Marius spoke quietly, an embarrassed little smile on his face. Jehan reached forward to squeeze his hand.

“So I guess, this is the best holiday I’ve ever been on.”

“Fuck,” Bahorel swore, finishing his pint. Feuilly nodded.

“I know what you mean. None of my foster parents took me on holiday. I never had a passport til I met Bahorel,” he shot a grin over at his best mate. 

Jehan picked up his glass.

“To holidays with friends!”

They all clinked glasses, Marius blushing crimson but looking very pleased indeed.

+

“No,” Enjolras glared at Courfeyrac, ignoring Combeferre grinning over Courf’s shoulder.

“Enjolras, please, this is Disney!” The boy was practically on his knees, eyes wide and pleading but Enjolras was a man of stone.

So far it was all going brilliantly. They had been to Universal Studios and ridden all the rides they could. They had spent a day at the hotel, making good use of the swimming pool, going for walks up and down the strip, popping into cafes for cokes and generally relaxing.

They had eaten a ridiculous amount of food. Portion control was obviously an unheard of term over the Atlantic. They filled up at breakfast at the all-you-can-eat buffet across the road from the hotel, before heading out to whatever destination for the day.

But Enjolras had put his foot down; they would not be visiting SeaWorld. He had serious issues with the objectification and treatment of cetaceans and while he was sure they had a lovely big tank or whatever else the keepers tried to reassure you with, the fact remained that they should be out in the wild not flipping and performing tricks for humans.

The other two, seeing that Enjolras was prepared to get on his soap box about this one, wisely agreed with him and crossed it off the to-do list.

But there was still plenty on offer. Magic Kingdom, Epcot, Universal Studios, Animal Kingdom, Hollywood Studios, Busch Gardens; the list went on.

And right now they were in Disney Hollywood studios and Courf wanted to go on the Tower of Terror. Enjolras took one look at it and paled. No way, not on this planet, not in any universe would he be persuaded to go on that thing. Ever.

“That’s not Disney!” Enjolras spluttered, pointing up at the ride just in time for the set of doors to open, giving a brief glimpse at the adrenaline junkies currently on the ride, before they slammed shut and there was the unmistakable sound of screaming.

“That’s… that’s just wrong. No. If you want to go die on that thing then knock yourself out. I’ll hold your bag and inform your next of kin.”

Courfeyrac sighed like a sulky child before turning to Combeferre.

“Looks like it’s just you and me, Ferre,” he grumbled, shooting a dark look over his shoulder. Combeferre smiled, before turning to Enjolras.

“Are you going to be ok while I take our son on this ride?” he chuckled, ignoring Courf sticking his tongue out at him over his shoulder. Enjolras gave him a reassuring smile.

“Sure, I’ll be –” he cast an eye over the map. “I’ll be at the Backlot Express having something to eat. Meet you there?”

Combeferre patted his arm, nodding, before turning and following Courfeyrac back to the queue.

As Enjolras settled himself into a chair with a coke and a burger, he scoured the map. He was enjoying himself, very relaxed. The holiday was going well and apart from his severe aversion to plummeting from a great height in the supposed name of fun, there hadn’t been too much he’d said no to.

He reached around in his bag, pulling out a bunch of fliers he had grabbed in the reception of the hotel. Not all of them were for theme parks. There were some for zoos which he dismissed out of turn. There were shopping experiences and golf clubs and eating experiences (or ‘restaurants’ as they were known back home, he thought ruefully).

Then his eye fell upon an orange leaflet for the Brad Cooper art gallery. It took him a moment to realise what it was that had caught his eye.

  
_JVJ presents:_   
_The Mind of Thetis_   
_By R_   
_back from its successful tour for a one week exclusive_   


There were three small photos from the series on the front of the leaflet. Enjolras peered at them curiously. He felt the heat rise up his neck to his cheeks.

“Hey, there you are!” Courf clapped a hand onto Enjolras’s shoulder, making him jump. Courf started back, looking confused. “You ok?” he asked, shooting a confused look over at Ferre who jogged up behind him.

Enjolras looked over at his best mate, wondering if his apparent mindreading skills would work this time. Combeferre gazed at him for a moment, eyes flicking between him and the leaflets on the table.

“Lost track of the time?” he asked, voice neutral but slightly questioning.

“Yeah, you just startled me,” he tried a shaky smile that was convincing precisely no one. He stuffed the remaining leaflets back into his bag. “What are we doing now?”

They left it, Combeferre and Courf, bless them. They left the topic alone and carried on with their day. Only later that night, with Courf passed out and snoring, Combeferre gave Enjolras a look, a look that made it quite clear he wanted to know what was going on and he wanted to know now.

So Enjolras put the leaflet in his hands.

“You think this is Aire’s work?” Combeferre enquired, after reading it through.

“I know it is. You’ve seen the Trafalgar drawing. I’d know his style anywhere. He’s done, it Ferre. He’s gone and become a professional artist. And… I don’t know how I feel about that.”

Enjolras scrubbed his face with his hands. He was thrilled and proud and so very angry. Angry that the bastard had never emailed him, had never told him, never thought to mention that he was a successful artist. With work not only being displayed but actually touring! 

“Did you want to go?” Combeferre said at last. Enjolras thought for a moment, before shaking his head. If they went to an art gallery Courfeyrac would want to know why and he wasn’t ready for that conversation. Not yet.

“No, we’ll leave it.”

He got hardly any sleep that night.

+

As the wind howled round the building, the boys tried to block it out by turning up the volume on the television. There wasn’t much on, and Bahorel was about to suggest a game of some sort when the room was suddenly plunged into darkness.

There was a shriek that sounded an awful lot like it came from Jehan, while Joly and Bossuet called out at the same time.

“Hang on, there are candles in the kitchen drawer,” Feuilly’s no-nonsense voice brought a sense of calm back to the room. There was a flicker of light as he clicked his lighter, the shallow flame not providing much light but just enough to see by.

“Aren’t you glad we smoke now?” Bahorel grinned, flicking his own lighter to life in time to see Joly glare at him in disapproval.

It didn’t take long to get the candles set up, and then they decided to light the fire as well. That was not so successful, as the room quickly filled with smoke, the chimney evidently blocked.

“This is just the worst,” Joly grumbled, holding the window open, torn between the wet weather outside and the smoke inside.

“Well then let’s cheer it up a bit!” Bahorel proclaimed, heading towards the kitchen and returning with an armful of alcohol.

“Let’s get so fucking drunk we forget that we’re in the worst shack Wales has to offer in the middle of a monsoon in July.”

There was a loud cheer at his suggestion. They ended up pulling the sofa and chairs closer to the fire, Bossuet curled up on Joly, Feuilly, Bahorel and Jehan squeezed on the sofa and Marius on the other chair.

After a few rounds of “Twenty-One” and “I Have Never” someone suggested Truth or Dare. 

“Oh my god, are we twelve?” Feuilly groaned, while Marius went a funny colour.

“Oh, since when did you get too grown-up for Truth or Dare?” snorted Bahorel in response, elbowing his friend sharply in the ribs. “And Pontmercy you can relax. Courf isn’t here!”

That caused a renewed round of laughter. So, Truth or Dare it was. Even though Marius stuck to truth because he was far too terrified of dare, something Joly diagnosed as a pavlovian response. Bossuet also stuck to truth after the first round of dares resulted in his drink going flying across the carpet.

Everything was warm and hazy with alcohol and good friends. Feuilly could feel his eyes drooping and had just decided that this would be his last round before retiring when Jehan’s voice cut through the air.

“Ok, Bahorel, Truth or Dare?”

“Dare,” because it was always dare with Bahorel. Jehan grinned wickedly.

“I dare you to kiss Feuilly.”

Fuck. Feuilly sat up, his mind suddenly horribly focused and clear as though someone had poured a bucket of cold water over him.

Bahorel grinned.

“You’re fucking on,” he grinned, turning round to face the redhead at his side.

In that moment, Feuilly wanted to kill Jehan. This was not what he wanted. He didn’t want his first, last and only kiss with the guy he’d had a massive crush on for fucking YEARS to be part of a dare. 

Bahorel was looking at him, still grinning, but with surprisingly soft eyes.

“You good with this?” he asked, voice low so only Feuilly could hear him, and something deep inside lurched.

Was he good with this? Fuck, Bahorel was about to kiss him and he was asking if it was ok? He couldn’t very well say no. It wasn’t just about saving face. Fuck saving face, his friends weren’t judgemental arseholes and no one, to his knowledge, had been ostracised for backing out of a dare, especially as this wasn’t even his dare. But he knew, he knew that sober or drunk he would regret not making the most of this opportunity. He would wake up tomorrow and every day afterwards wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t been a coward. So he nodded.

He braced himself for it to be awful, a quick peck, or else a harsh joke of a kiss.

But it wasn’t. It was soft, almost tentative. Rough lips against his, pressing firmly and tasting of beer. It was possible that it went on for a shade longer than necessary, given that it was a dare and Bahorel, to Feuilly’s knowledge, had never kissed a guy before. And oh fuck, he should not think about being Bahorel’s first guy.

Then Bahorel pulled back and the moment was gone.

The next morning found Feuilly on the floor of the living room, groaning because his back was absolutely killing him, not to mention his head, which felt like a herd of elephants had taken up residency. He tried to remember why he was sleeping on the floor and not in his bed.

At some point someone had put a blanket over him and as he rolled over onto his tummy, his face far too close to the grim carpet for his liking, he realised there was a cushion under his head as well. It occurred to him that at the age of twenty, he was getting far too old for this shit.

“Hey,” a soft voice called out from behind him.

“Jesus, Jehan, what the fuck time is it?” he groaned, flopping onto his belly, giving up his pathetic efforts to get up.

“Not quite eight o’clock,” came the reply. Groaning, Feuilly forced his concrete limbs to work, struggling up to his knees, scrubbing his face with his hands. When the room swam into focus, he made out Jehan, curled up on the sofa, regarding him with big eyes and looking terrified.

“I’m so sorry, Feuilly,” he muttered.

“For what?” he snapped in response.

Feuilly needed water. He needed water and a shower and clean clothes. It was too fucking early and _oh shit_.

He had kissed Bahorel. Actually, worse than that, Bahorel had kissed him. As part of a dare. He closed his eyes, trying not to remember the echo of it on his lips.

When he opened them again, Jehan looked like he was about to cry and Feuilly almost instantly regretted his tone.

“For daring Bahorel to kiss you,” Jehan chewed his lip, looking extraordinarily remorseful. 

Feuilly sighed. This was too much to deal with. That kiss, that fucking amazing kiss. He was going to lock that away and keep it special in his heart.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said flatly. “I don’t remember much after Bossuet knocked his drink over.”

Jehan’s eyes widened, but he nodded stiffly in understanding. Feuilly remembered all right, he just didn’t want to talk about it.

+

Bahorel stared at the empty space in the bed where Feuilly was supposed to be. Last night was a hazy mess of candles, spilt drinks, and Feuilly. Feuilly by firelight, Feuilly with his eyes closed, yielding beneath his lips and Bahorel now had a big problem. A big, Feuilly-shaped problem. 

He needed to talk to Feuilly. Because that had been more than a dare. That was something, and surely he wasn’t the only one to think so.

He wasn’t going to resolve anything lying here staring at empty sheets. Groaning slightly, he rolled over out of bed, tugging a t-shirt over his head.

From the sound of it, Feuilly was awake and talking to Jehan. At the sound of his name, Bahorel paused on the bottom step.

_“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t remember much after Bossuet knocked his drink over.”_

Bahorel inhaled sharply. Fuck.

Suddenly Jehan swung into view, almost colliding with Bahorel, who caught him. Jehan stumbled back, eyes wide.

“Hey,” Bahorel coughed, trying to appear as though he hadn’t been listening outside the door. “Is Feuilly in there? He didn’t come to bed last night.”

Jehan motioned into the living room before shooting off upstairs. Taking a deep breath, he strode into the room as though his heart wasn’t in his mouth.

“Hey, so, we were pretty drunk last night,” he said in lieu of greeting. Feuilly shot him a look.

“No fucking shit,” he muttered in response. Bahorel couldn’t help but grin. The guy’s rusty red hair was sticking up at all angles and he had some serious scruff on his chin. Feuilly the morning after… Bahorel really needed to stop thinking about that.

“Jehan said we kissed,” Feuilly decided to seize the bull by the horns, just deal with it now. No point letting it fester.

“Huh, I vaguely remember something like that,” the words came automatically out of Bahorel’s mouth, because if Feuilly didn’t remember then there was no point trying to have the conversation he had been hoping to have when he got out of bed this morning. 

“Truth or Dare, it’s a fucking nightmare. Still, all in the name of fun, huh. No harm done.”

He clapped Feuilly on the back and tried not to remember the frankly beautiful sight of Feuilly with kissed-red lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh GUYS! 
> 
> The poem Jehan recited at the start was The Voice by Thomas Hardy. It's a beautiful poem, please look it up.


	14. By Sun And Candlelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the first friday night back at university and the boys are in the student union bar...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to all those lovely, patient people who've been yelling at me because, really, can't these two just fuck already...
> 
> this is for you

**Friday, 8pm, last week of September**

“Ok, guys, listen up!”

There was a round of groaning and eye rolling as Courfeyrac pressed his hands together as though hosting an important meeting of the United Nations.

“This is our last First Friday Back of our University lives. We need to make it the best we possibly can.” He gestured round the bar, already filled with excited pretty-young-things away from home for the first time and their student loans burning a hole in their pockets.

“Let’s make it a memorable one!” Courf grinned round the table and it was almost impossible not to share the young man’s enthusiasm. Not even Enjolras scowled at him, though he did purse his lips slightly.

Putting his money where his mouth was, Courf got up to buy the first round, asking Bahorel to help him carry the drinks.

“Well, someone got their mojo back over the summer,” Jehan commented dryly as the two guys walked away. Feuilly glanced at him sideways but his flatmate had a small smile on his face so he relaxed immediately. Combeferre grinned broadly.

“I think that may have had a lot to do with Samantha, Jeff, Harriet and Niall,” he supplied, eyes bright. Enjolras rolled his eyes at the mention of Courfeyrac’s new American ‘penfriends’ as he called them, conquests met on their holidays but for some reason Courf had felt the need to stay in touch.

“It’s nice to see him back on form, I think,” Joly added, head on one side as he considered the matter. Bossuet nodded in agreement.

 

**9pm**

“Enjolras?”

Everyone turned, eyes wide as a young girl approached the table, reaching out a tentative hand to attract the attention of the young blond who was conversing with Combeferre. Courf smirked, waiting for Enjolras’s usual response.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt. You probably don’t remember me. I was at your presentation last semester on queer erasure of bisexuality in the media?” she smiled at him shyly and to everyone’s surprise, Enjolras leapt to his feet, shaking the girl’s hand firmly.

“Of course, how are you? Emily, wasn’t it?”

Feuilly and Bahorel exchanged a look, Marius openly gaped, while Jehan hid his laughter by pretending to take a sip of his drink.

“I was wondering if I could buy you a drink? I hope to be on the LGBT committee this year and I’d love to exchange some idea of possible events we could do. That is, if I’m not interrupting?” she looked around the table at the rest of the group for the first time. Enjolras’s smile faltered.

“Erm,” he mumbled, chewing his lip, obviously torn between staying with his friends and accepting the invitation. Courf, decided for him, reaching up to push his flatmate between the shoulder blades, telling him they’d be seeing him later. Flushing slightly, Enjolras followed Emily towards the bar.

“Well, I never thought I’d see the day!” Bahorel commented, watching his fellow law student cross the crowded bar.

“You know technically that doesn’t count,” Courf muttered, somewhat rebelliously. There was a chuckle of laughter from the rest of the group as Courfeyrac sulked that Enjolras of all people had been the first to part from the group that night.

 

**9:30pm**

“Where’d Marius go?”

It had taken Courf about ten minutes to realise that his friend had disappeared. Combeferre frowned.

“He’s over there, chatting to those two girls.”

Everyone whirled round and Bahorel let out a low whistle. Sure enough, blushing through his freckles and waving his arms around, obviously explaining something, Marius was deep in conversation with two girls who appeared to be hanging off his every word.

“First Enjolras, now Pontmercy. The world is upside down, tonight, that’s for sure!” Feuilly chuckled, turning his back on the spectacle and returning to his drink.

 

**10pm**

“Did you know Combeferre had tattoos?” 

Jehan rested his head on Feuilly’s shoulder, following his friend’s eyes across the room to where Combeferre was leaning on the bar, conversing animatedly with a girl who was pretending to be very interested in whatever he was saying. However her eyes kept straying downward to Combeferre’s forearms and no one at the table could really blame her.

Ferre had rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing a swirl of mathematical signs and equations just dipping into view past his elbows, promising more hidden beneath his sleeves.

“I know I recommended him a tattooist at the end of our first year. I guess he must have been having work done in his spare time.” Bahorel advised, pursing his lips slightly before shrugging his shoulders.

“I didn’t know Combeferre had any spare time,” Bossuet commented and Feuilly agreed with him. Eyes travelled to the left, past the girl talking to Ferre, where Courf was chatting to her friend. The pair had gone to the bar about fifteen minutes ago for another round. It didn’t look like either of them would be back any time soon.

“Lucky bastards!” muttered Bahorel.

 

**10:30pm**

Feuilly couldn’t help but watch Jehan with a combination of pride and apprehension as his friend leaned forward, chin resting on hands, apparently enraptured by the burly brunet in front of him.

His flatmate had been on the dancefloor, doing an excellent impression of Luna Lovegood at a wedding, when the man in question had started to match him, to dance with him. Feuilly’s protective streak had flared, but Jehan was smiling and Bahorel elbowed him, warning him to take a backseat; Jehan could handle himself.

Now they were sat at a table for two, perched on barstools. The other guy must have been at least two feet taller than Jehan, and he seemed to hunch over in order to hear what the young man was saying.

“Stop staring, or I won’t be responsible for what Jehan does to you when you scare the guy off,” Bahorel advised him, putting another pint down in front of his friend. Beside them, Joly was muttering in Bossuet’s ear; from the fact that Bossuet’s eyes were wide like saucers, the subject matter was hardly likely to be the weather. Suddenly Bossuet stood up.

“We’ll see you guys later,” he stuttered, before grabbing his coat in one hand and Joly with the other, making a dash for the door. Bahorel and Feuilly watched them go with amusement.

“I guess it’s just you and me, boy.” Bahorel said bracingly, turning to grin at his friend.

 

**11:15pm**

Feuilly was slightly drunk. Not a lot drunk. Just enough to feel warm in his skin, for there to be a soft focus to the room at large. Bahorel was talking to him, he could see the man’s mouth moving, but the music was now so loud that it was almost impossible to make any sense of it.

He watched Bahorel’s mouth as it negotiated words he hadn’t a hope of hearing. The mixture of alcohol and thumping bass took his mind away from the present back two months to the summer, to another drunken evening and those inviting lips.

Feuilly was distracted by his reverie by a warmth on his arm. He looked down to see Bahorel’s hand resting just above his elbow. His slightly foggy mind mused over this development and then he closed his eyes, sensing Bahorel leaning in close, breath upon his ear.

“You know, it is a shame,” Bahorel’s voice sounded in his head, clear and distinct. Feuilly looked up, meeting his friend’s eyes. He caught the scent of shower gel, smoke and whiskey which clung to the man’s skin.

“What is?” Feuilly asked, trying to pretend that he had, in fact, been paying attention. Bahorel grinned at him before leaning forward again.

“That you don’t remember our kiss.”

It occurred to Feuilly that Bahorel must be drunk too. It had been an unspoken agreement between them not to mention that night in Wales. Sometimes he caught Bahorel looking at him with a ponderous expression across his face, but if he looked twice the expression would be gone, replaced by the usual sardonic grin. The same grin the mohawked man was currently aiming at him.

Bahorel felt like he was walking a thin line here. Standing this close to Feuilly, leaning in so his mate could hear him over the noise of the bar, he couldn’t help but breathe in and suddenly he was surrounded by a scent that was so completely Feuilly. Smoke from burning leaves and cigarette breaks, turned earth and a hint of deodorant; Bahorel’s mouth was watering.

“So, how about I give you something else to remember…”

It was a cheesy line, one that sober Bahorel would probably cringe at in the morning. But this Bahorel, warm and lost in the scent of the outside brought in by this scrawny ginger bastard in front of him, this prick who had been teasing him with his easy grins and casual touches for the better part of two hours, couldn’t give a flying fuck as he moved to give the redhead a kiss he couldn’t possibly deny in the morning.

This kiss was different. It was not as tentative as before, Bahorel’s lips firm and insistent. Just as it got to the point where Feuilly had gotten past his surprise and was ready to sink into the kiss, parting his lips just so, when the warmth was gone, Bahorel pulling away.

“Sorry, I probably should have –” Bahorel scrubbed the back of his neck, a confused look clouding his face momentarily.

“Shut the fuck up,” Feuilly growled, grabbing Bahorel’s t-shirt because seriously, fuck this. Fuck this, fuck consequences and fuck Bahorel.

The hand not clutching the man’s shirt wound up on the back of Bahorel’s neck, his palm fitting neatly against the warmth expanse of skin. He was vaguely aware of two great hands pressing his back, just below his shoulder blades, pulling Feuilly closer to those chest muscles he’d spent the better part of three years trying not to think about.

“Fuck, ‘Rel,” he murmured, finally pulling back, but not stepping away, Bahorel’s breath hot against his lips.

“Shall we take this somewhere else?” Bahorel’s voice was dark and full of promise.

+

This was probably a bad idea. Drunk Feuilly and Sober Feuilly were beginning to talk to each other and come to the conclusion that he had either received a severe blow to the head and was currently hallucinating, or else Bahorel had completely taken leave of his senses.

The energy, the force coming from Bahorel was thrilling, a challenge that Feuilly couldn’t help but respond to. It was like a fight of sorts; pushing and shoving, teeth and tongues and biting, tasting. As they made it through the street door and up the stairs to his flat, he prayed Jehan had gone elsewhere after leaving the bar.

He allowed himself to be thrown up against his own front door, enjoying giving in to the strong arms that held him there. He sized up the strength, eyes running appreciatively up those arms, to the shoulders and finally up to Bahorel, who was watching him, eyes blown and black. Against his thigh, practically grinding into him, Feuilly could feel Bahorel was rock hard.

“Do you want to fuck me?” he pressed his mouth close to Bahorel’s ear, sucking on the lobe there. “Do you want to bend me over some surface and fuck me into next week?” Bahorel groaned.

“Jesus, Feuilly,” the man mumbled and something in his tone made Feuilly pull back. He looked at his friend seriously, wondering if Bahorel had finally cracked, if this exciting game of gay chicken had finally run its course. He searched Bahorel’s face for any sign of rejection or reticence, trying not to dwell too much on how his mohawk was sticking out in all directions and that already there was a purple mark visible on the guy’s neck.

“Are you sure about this?” Feuilly’s voice was barely above a whisper. He didn’t want to break the moment; his fingers flexed to grip Bahorel’s arms as though he could prevent the man from pulling back. He was answered by a harsh, claiming kiss.

“Just get in the damn bedroom.”

Shirts off, they fumbled with buckles and everything was skin and muscles and sweat. 

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” because Feuilly wasn’t stupid. He remembered his first time; the fumbling, the awkwardness, the prep.

Bahorel glared at him. 

“Fucking is fucking, Feuilly, I doubt there’s much difference.”

Feuilly snorted, shaking his head.

“Oh, you have much to learn, my straight little friend,” he chortled, ignoring the way Bahorel responded with a flippant ‘fuck you’, before rooting through his bedside table for his lube and a condom. 

He returned to where he’d left Bahorel standing naked in the middle of the bedroom floor. The man had his arms folded, trying to look unimpressed but Feuilly just grinned at him. He reached down to palm at Bahorel’s cock, tracing it lightly with his fingers. Just looking at the damn thing made his arse ache. He dropped down to his knees and licked along the shaft all the way to the tip before taking it into his mouth and tonguing at it playfully, enjoying the surprised grunt and accompanying oath, the way two strong hands were suddenly in his hair and tugging and _fuck that was good_.

He pulled off Bahorel, being sure to make an appropriately cliché popping sound before getting back to his feet.

“I’ll do the hard work, you just lie back and enjoy the show,” he quipped. He pushed the guy towards the bed, enjoying how hot Bahorel’s skin felt beneath his fingers. He couldn’t help the smirk playing across his lips; he was going to enjoy this.

Climbing up on the mattress just in front of where Bahorel was now reclining against the headboard, watching Feuilly with a look half fascination, half trepidation, he rose to his knees. He uncapped the lube, drizzled a certain amount on his fingers and slowly pushed them inside himself.

The joy of fingering yourself, apart from knowing exactly where to press, was that you knew how to get the job done as quickly and as efficiently as possible. He had no intention of dragging this out; he wanted Bahorel to fuck him before the man had a chance to change his mind.

But judging by the hungry stare on Bahorel’s face and the way the man was practically salivating as he watched Feuilly open himself up, that wasn’t likely to happen any time soon.

“What’s the matter?” he winked, playfully. “Never seen a guy with two fingers up his arse before?”

Bahorel made an indistinct sound somewhere between a groan and a growl and Feuilly practically purred at the jolt of lust shooting through him. Removing his fingers, he climbed up onto Bahorel’s lap, kneeling up slightly, and pressing a harsh kiss to the man’s mouth, grinning as Bahorel took control of the kiss, biting down hard on Feuilly’s lower lip.

Feuilly reached out blindly to take Bahorel’s hand, coating the other man’s thick fingers in lube. Then he guided the uncertain fingers backwards and down.

“Go on,” he murmured in encouragement, before keening back as Bahorel’s fingers pushed inside him.

“Fuck, oh fucking fuck.”

Lucidity gone and now Bahorel was grinning, the smug faced bastard, thrusting his fingers in and out and growing in confidence with every move.

And that was it. Without further ado, he reached for the condom and rolled it onto Bahorel’s cock. Then with a quick exchange of looks, a needless confirmation that they were both very much still on board with this, he found himself being rolled over. Feuilly expected to land on his front. It was his usual and preferred position for bottoming, face pressed into a pillow while whoever was fucking him did so with speed and efficiency.

Instead, Bahorel kept him on his back, Feuilly snaking his legs round the thick waist, muscles thrumming against his calves and then Bahorel pushed inside him, causing him to arch off the bed.

“Sweet fucking Christ!”

There was a delicious amount of burn, and the best sensation in the world of being completely full, his body adjusting to the intrusion. He forced his eyes to open, to look up. Towering over him with arms like tree trunks, Bahorel’s eyes were black, his grin wide.

“Holy shit, Feuilly, your arse is tight,” he grunted, and it might almost have been mistaken for a complaint, if it weren’t for the obvious pleasure Bahorel took in pulling nearly all the way out before slamming back in again.

In his mind’s eye, Feuilly could imagine Bahorel’s thighs. Heaven knows he’d seen them enough in shorts in the summer. Those muscles that were now going to fuck into him like a machine. He let his fingers curl round the bigger man’s biceps, leaning back against the pillows, relishing the smells and sounds around him.

Feuilly had always suspected that being fucked by Bahorel would be something else. The reality of it was almost overwhelming. Strong arms pinned him to the bed and he knew that tomorrow he would have some serious bruises. But fuck all that because right at that moment he was about to explode. His entire body was taught like a spring and all he could feel and hear and think was the man fucking into him, the thrusts sometimes slow, sometimes fast, but then there was a slight shift in position and Bahorel hit his prostate.

Bahorel actually stopped, filled with concern, wondering what the fuck he’d done to make Feuilly howl like that, his freckly pale skin flushed with effort, writhing and twisting against the sheets.

“Fuck, fuck, ‘Rel, Christ don’t stop don’t stop,” he gasped, eyes shut tight as he rolled his hips encouragingly.

Feuilly’s rough and calloused hands moved from where they had been clinging to Bahorel’s muscles, round to the guy’s arse, pinching and pulling at the muscles there, encouraging the guy to start moving again.

“Fuck, don’t make me beg, ‘Rel, so fucking help me, MOVE YOUR ARSE!”

Bahorel almost started laughing as the redhead’s eyes flashed opening, a spark of fury to be found there.

“Demanding little fucker aren’t you,” he grunted rhetorically, but he carried on anyway. The sight of Feuilly underneath him, the rusty red contrasting with the white pillows, the sinewy body responding so beautifully around him, it had taken every effort to come to a halt in the first place. He watched, breathless, as the guy reached down to take his own neglected and leaking cock in hand, stroking it in time with Bahorel’s thrusts.

Having Feuilly tight around his cock, groaning and clutching at him, it was so damn addictive Bahorel didn’t think he’d ever get enough. He hadn’t been sure what to expect when this had started. It certainly hadn’t been this. He had never imagined it could be like this. But for now he made efforts to shut off his internal monologue, determined to enjoy the moment while it happened around him. He could have a crisis about What All This Meant at a later date.

He felt Feuilly come, muscles clenching round him as evidence of the orgasm spattered against his chest accompanied by a long, low moan. Not too long after he buried himself deep inside his friend, his whole body going rigid as his orgasm rocked through him.

Feuilly groaned slightly as Bahorel pulled out of him. In the dark he heard his mate muttering and then the sound of the condom being discarded on the carpet.

“Fuck it, deal with that tomorrow,” Bahorel muttered and Feuilly felt his face grow into a smile. He shivered slightly, leaning over the side of the bed, groping for a t-shirt off the floor to clean himself up with, too tired to go to the bathroom for a proper wash right now. He then passed it to Bahorel who accepted it without a word.

“Do you mind if I stay?” the gruff, seemingly casual words cut through the darkness.

“’Course not,” he replied. Like he would kick Bahorel out of bed right now! There was a huff in the darkness and the bed shifted slightly as the man laid down. Feuilly followed, resisting the urge to cuddle into the man’s side because for some reason, despite everything they had just done, cuddling at that moment seemed an obscenely intimate act, an acknowledgement of something deeper than just sex.

Bahorel’s skin was warm, the man was like a powerhouse, radiating heat, and Feuilly was glad of it as he lay listening to his bed mate’s even breathing.

“Bahorel?” Feuilly spoke quietly, half hoping the man was already asleep.

“Yup?” the man was barely awake, that much was clear.

“We’re good, right?” Just for a moment his heart stuttered because really they should have left the conversations for the morning. Beside him, Bahorel yawned.

“Sure, we’re good.” There was a moment of silence. Feuilly felt like he should say more, but he was fucked out and tired and still a bit tipsy.

“Fucking is fucking, mate, go the fuck to sleep.” Bahorel grumbled in the dark, shoving his arms under his pillow. Feuilly grinned into the darkness.

+

Bahorel wasn’t in the bed when Feuilly woke up and for a moment he felt his world tip beneath him. Then he became aware of the noise that had woken him in the first place. Evidently Bahorel was one of those fuckers who sang in the shower, full of the joys of spring, while the rest of the house suffered with a hangover.

Wincing slightly at the ache in his muscles, because it had been a while since someone had fucked him that thoroughly, Feuilly rolled from his bed. He pulled on a clean pair of boxers and headed out in search of coffee.

Standing in the kitchen, masochistically enjoying the cold tiles burning against his feet, he waited patiently for the kettle to boil.

“Morning, fuckface!” Bahorel greeted him cheerfully, towel thrown over his shoulder, water droplets clinging to the stripe of long hair on his head. Feuilly grinned back at him, the sunshine in Bahorel’s tone too infectious to ignore.

“Coffee?” he offered.

“Oh god, yes please,” Bahorel perched against the kitchen counter, as he had done countless times before but now it was different. With a stab of something indefinable, Feuilly realised they’d taken their friendship to a whole new level and no amount of pretending could take it back.

“Uh-oh,” Bahorel said lightly, accepting the mug from Feuilly with evident gratitude. “You’ve been hanging round Enjolras too long.”

“What?” Feuilly look startled and Bahorel tried to give him a reassuring grin.

“You’ve perfected his ‘we need to have a serious discussion about this because it is serious’ look,” he explained, before downing most of the contents of the mug, sighing happily.

“Seriously, mate,” he looked at Feuilly, his tone softer, more serious. “Can’t we agree that it was a good fuck and leave it at that?” Feuilly blinked at him.

“I mean, you seemed like you enjoyed it,” Bahorel’s face clouded a little then and now Feuilly rolled his eyes.

“Yes, mate, of course I fucking enjoyed it,” he stepped forward, unconsciously, as though physical presence could reinforce the point.

“What I don’t want to happen is for our friendship to be completely fucked up because of -” he gesticulated in the air as though to grab the words from the ether. “Because of _this_.”

“You’ve screwed around with Jehan more than once and that relationship seems pretty sound,” Bahorel retaliated, pouting slightly.

As if on cue, the front door opened and a light voice called into the hallway.

“Hello! Feuilly?” 

Feuilly stepped away from Bahorel as though his proximity to the man was burning him while Bahorel rolled his eyes, grabbing the kettle to pour himself another coffee.

“In the kitchen!” he called out to his flatmate, eyeing Bahorel with a slightly apologetic look on his face.

“Sorry I left you last night,” the disembodied voice of Jehan called out sweetly from the hallway. “Andree proved to be a very good lay but surprisingly clingy. Was your evening any good? Last I saw, you were talking to… oh _good morning_!”

Jehan entered the living room and spotted Bahorel immediately, his face breaking into the widest Cheshire Cat grin as he took in the scene before him.

“Sorry, am I interrupting?” 

Feuilly was going to kill Jehan. He was going to murder the little English Literature student and hang the body in the gardens at work as a terrible warning to all not to fuck with him.

“I was just on my way out. Shit to do,” Bahorel grinned at Jehan, before turning to put his mug in the sink.

“Cheers for coffee. I’ll see you later.” he gave Feuilly a toothy grin, before turning to go.

The two men left in the kitchen waited in silence until the front door banged shut. Jehan fixed Feuilly with a pointed look.

“Tell me everything!” 

Feuilly groaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to purple_embroidery and epeolatry - your efforts are appreciated as always :)
> 
> Title is taken from "Sonnet from the Portuguese" by Elizabeth Browning


	15. Not Fooling Anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just, to avoid any future weirdness… perhaps we could leave it at that. I mean, not do it again?”
> 
> The morning after the night before

Bahorel threw his keys down on his desk before tugging last night’s shirt off and chucking it in the direction of the laundry. The normally busy house was silent; Joly and Bossuet evidently hadn’t surfaced yet and when Bahorel stuck his head round Marius’s door he had found the room empty. He fired off a text to his housemate threatening to report the guy AWOL if he hadn’t heard from him by midday. A short text confirming Marius was still alive had been received shortly afterwards and Bahorel proclaimed himself satisfied.

But now he had changed his clothes and confirmed that all of his housemates were none the worse for their adventures the night before he found himself at something of a loose end. This was a bad thing because immediately his head became full of a certain redhead moaning as he reached orgasm and that was very Not Helpful.

_To Courf: You awake?_

_From Courf: Sleep is for the dead._

_From Courf: ? u ok?_

_To Courf: fire up the kettle – be there in ten._

Combeferre opened the front door, giving Bahorel one of his benevolent smiles as he stepped aside to let Bahorel in.

“Just follow the laughter,” he advised, closing the front door. Sure enough, Bahorel could hear Courf’s trademark bellow coming from the kitchen which is where he found the man, supporting himself against the kitchen side, somewhat over-egging the pudding as he attempted to give the impression of dying from laughter. Standing with his arms folded and lips pouting stood Enjolras, evidently the subject of all this hilarity.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Courfeyrac,” the blond frowned, and Courf must be in real trouble for Enjolras to use his full name in that tone of voice.

“It is entirely possible for two people to share a drink in a pub without it resulting in sex.”

Bahorel raised his eyebrows, jumping slightly as Combeferre squeezed past him, heading to his abandoned bowl of cereal on the side.

“Believe me, Enjolras,” Courf brought his laughter to a stop, but his smile was still wide. “No one is happier than I that you didn’t get laid last night.”

“Courf,” Combeferre intervened, narrowing his eyes at his flatmate who was dangerously close to overstepping the mark. Bahorel found himself leaning against the doorframe, smiling, his own troubles forgotten as the strangely domestic scene before him played out. Watching the dynamic between these three friends always gave him a nameless sensation of positivity, even when they were squabbling. 

Courf spotted Bahorel and waved an empty mug at him, grinning broadly.

“Coffee?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” he agreed, grinning. Enjolras took a sip from his own mug before turning his attention to Bahorel, still leaning against the doorframe.

“How did things go with Feuilly last night?” the blond asked casually.

Combeferre actually coughed around a mouthful of cereal while Courf froze, spoon of coffee granules halfway between jar and mug.

“How the fuck do you know about that?” Bahorel tried not to shout and Enjolras raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“If it was supposed to be a secret perhaps you might have tried not making a scene three feet away from me in the Student Union bar,” came the crisp response.

Ah, yes, that was a fair point. Bahorel hadn’t even realised Enjolras was still in the bar at that point, much less standing nearby. His attention had evidently been elsewhere.

“Sorry, what did you do with Feuilly last night?” Courf looked like all his Christmases had just come at once. Bahorel rubbed a hand absently up the side of his head, noting that the stubble was really getting too long and he probably should shave it back soon. Then he took a deep breath.

+

“I don’t know whether to kiss you or slap you,” Jehan had pulled about fifty different faces in the two minutes it had taken Feuilly to narrate a general overview of the events of the previous evening. Feuilly snorted impatiently.

“Really, Jehan, it’s fine,”

“It’s really not. You’ve been pining – _yes you have_ , Feuilly, don’t you lie to me. It’s been Bahorel since I met you. You told me he was straight and uninterested and now I come home and he’s in the kitchen all wet and you’re not wearing any clothes and may I congratulate you on the Bahorel-shaped bruising on your shoulders by the way, very pretty –”

Jehan had a point. It really shouldn’t be fine. But this didn’t feel like the crisis Feuilly had expected. Ok, so he and Bahorel hadn’t expressly discussed anything thanks to a certain flatmate’s interruption, but Bahorel had been smiling when he left, and the words that had been said were rather positive.

_A good fuck and leave it at that_.

“What?” Jehan broke off midsentence.

Oh, evidently Feuilly had said that last bit out loud. He cleared his throat to clarify.

“That’s what Bahorel said. That it was a good fuck and we should leave it at that.” Feuilly watched his friend’s face cloud over with concern.

“And you’re happy with that are you?” Jehan pouted slightly, eyebrow raised.

Feuilly shrugged. Actually he felt pretty damn good. His body was humming and he probably needed a shower, but his head felt clearer than it had done in weeks. Rubbing the back of his neck with his hand he thought about last night, about how it had been intense and fun and good. More than anything else he remembered Bahorel.

_We’re good right?_

_Sure, we’re good._

“Yeah,” he said at last, looking Jehan in the eye. “Yeah, I’m happy with that.”

+

Bahorel hadn’t really wanted to talk to anyone about his night with Feuilly, except apart from maybe talking to the man himself. His main purpose of seeking out Courfeyrac was to hear how his evening went, but all that had gone out of the window thanks to Enjolras’s uncharacteristically big mouth.

“Look, it’s not that much of a big deal,” he said defensively, ignoring the unimpressed raising of eyebrows from both Enjolras and Combeferre, while Courfeyrac continued to interrogate him.

“But I didn’t think you even liked –” Courf came to a sudden stop all by himself, almost blushing slightly. “Feuilly,” he finished. Combeferre frowned at him over Bahorel’s shoulder, but the guy in question grinned, not taking offence.

“In all fairness, it’s not something I’ve really thought about before, and something I’m not going to examine too closely until I’ve spoken to the ‘Feuilly’ in question,” he remarked evenly.

“Look, I appreciate your concern but I really don’t want to talk about this. It’s bad enough Feuilly is getting the third degree from Jehan as we speak. We only had sex.”

In his head he thinks of pale freckly shoulders, of nimble fingers, a wicked tongue, Feuilly on his knees and the lingering scent of turned earth and of burning leaves.

+

“How’s Jehan?” Bahorel rested the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he tugged his trainers off before slouching back down on his bed.

“Far too excited for his own good. How’s Courf?” Feuilly sounded tired. Bahorel wondered if he was lying on his bed too, whether there was his own scent clinging to the pillow from the night before.

“Ecstatic,” he deadpanned, and then grinned as Feuilly’s snort of laughter filtered down the line.

“Listen, sorry if I was weird this morning.” Feuilly started, cutting straight to it because he didn’t have time for fucking about.

“It’s fine, mate, it wasn’t weird. I can understand why,” Bahorel answered, feeling very comfortable and at peace with the world.

His mind slipped back to his conversation with Courf that morning, the last thing the man said before dropping the topic entirely. 

“You and Feuilly have been making faces at each other for weeks now. Maybe now you’ve fucked it out of your system, you can get on with your lives.” It occurred to Bahorel that the guy might have a point. Things with Feuilly had been awkward since Wales. Hopefully now things could get back to normal.

“I wanted to say,” Feuilly cleared his throat, suddenly sounding awkward. “It was good, don’t get me wrong. It was great in fact.” Bahorel grinned down the phone, waiting for his mate to continue.

“Just, to avoid any future weirdness… perhaps we could leave it at that. I mean, not do it again?”

There was a pause, a silence at both ends. Feuilly held his breath, waiting for Bahorel to respond, while the other tried to work out why his chest suddenly hurt so much.

“Of course, mate. I don’t want things to be weird either. It was a great night, so we’ll keep it that way.”

Feuilly exhaled.

“Cool,” he said, hoping he sounded convincing to Bahorel at the very least.

+

Bahorel looked up when a pint glass was placed in front of him. Feuilly grinned at him, sliding into his own seat.

“I owe you at least three drinks from last week, so don’t even think of complaining,” Feuilly shot him down before he got a chance to protest. Seeing that it was a lost cause, he raised the glass in a toast and took a sip.

“So, what’s the big deal? You said you wanted to ask me something…” Feuilly cut right to the chase, a questioning look in his eye.

It had been three weeks since The Event That Shall Not Be Mentioned By Anyone and so far things had been going ok. Feuilly had been working his arse off at Chiswick House, doing autumn prep, while Bahorel had been throwing himself into his third year at uni with as much gusto as he could manage. However, they had met up roughly once a week for a drink, but always with at least one other friend in tow. Nobody had commented on it and to the casual observer, nothing had changed between the pair of them.

“My mother wants me to go home for my 21st birthday, to have a meal or something,” Bahorel said, drumming his fingers distractedly on the wood of the table.

The conversation with his mother had been short and non-negotiable. He could have a party with his uni friends any day of the week. But she had brought him into this world and she would damn well take him out of it if he didn’t get his arse back home to spend his actual birthday with his family. Bahorel had agreed without putting up any resistance.

“I wondered if you wanted to come too?” Bahorel phrased it as an actual question, looking distinctly unsure, half convinced that Feuilly would say no. It hadn’t escaped his attention that this was the first time he and his best mate had been alone, in a manner of speaking, since That Night.

But Feuilly gave him one of those rare, real smiles and shrugged his shoulders.

“If your mother doesn’t mind…” he said quietly, and Bahorel found himself grinning in return.

“Don’t be fucking soft, you know my mother thinks the sun shines out of your arse,” he snorted, feeling suddenly an awful lot happier.

They ended up staying in the pub for another drink, planning out the trip back to Bahorel’s family home up in Bedfordshire. Because Bahorel had a tutorial at five o’clock while Feuilly didn’t finish work until seven o’clock, they agreed to take the late nine o’clock train. It meant they probably would be arriving around midnight, but it would be better than battling weekend engineering works.

However, the best laid plans had not taken into account the possibility of the train actually breaking down.

Feuilly sat hunched in the chair, his knees drawn up to his chest, scowling at nothing as the driver apologised once again for the delay over the PA system. He glanced at his watch, knowing full well that whatever it said didn’t change the fact that they had missed their connecting train. Beside him, Bahorel was dozing, his mouth falling open slightly as his features relaxed.

Feuilly was tense; tense and pissed off and in need of a smoke. He hadn’t had a cigarette in three hours. Normally that wouldn’t be a big deal, but their train hadn’t moved in twenty minutes and was unlikely to move any time soon and as long as he was on this train he couldn’t smoke. He looked around the carriage; it was mostly empty except for a guy with a laptop four rows ahead and an old lady by the door, fast asleep, oblivious to what was happening around her.

Bahorel’s deep breathing threatened to turn into quiet snoring so he elbowed him sharply in the chest.

“If I don’t get to smoke, you don’t get to sleep,” he hissed. Bahorel opened one sleepy eye in response.

“What’s got your knickers in a knot?” he grumbled, shifting in his seat, before closing his eye again.

Feuilly decided to follow his example, trying to get comfortable in his seat before leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

He awoke with a start some time later to the sound of the driver making another announcement, this one telling them that they hoped to be underway in the next fifteen minutes or so. Feuilly realised that he had moved at some point so that he was now curled into Bahorel’s side and, until recently, his head had been resting on his friend’s shoulder. Feeling foggy and disorientated, he jerked away, rubbing his eyes and pretending he didn’t hear the small groan from Bahorel as he moved.

“Back in a sec,” he muttered, somewhat distractedly, as he shot out of the chair and headed for the loos.

With the door safely closed, he splashed his face with cold water, trying to get Bahorel’s heat and scent out of his head. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger; in fifteen minutes the train would be moving. Then they’d get off at the next station, call Bahorel’s mother to tell her they were still alive, find a hotel and then he could have a fucking smoke and it would be fine.

Taking a deep breath, he unlocked the bathroom door.

Bahorel was right outside. Feuilly, focused on his thoughts, had just enough time to register that fact before the larger man ploughed straight into him, stumbling backwards, strong arms reaching out to catch hold of him. As those huge hands closed over his arms he felt all the hairs on the back of his neck rise and he looked up to where Bahorel was staring down at him and there was a strange, not all together unpleasant, dropping sensation in his gut. Then Bahorel was upon him.

His mouth was harsh and desperate, hands clawing as he pushed Feuilly back into the toilet cubicle.

“Tell me to stop,” Bahorel groaned against his mouth, hands seeking underneath Feuilly’s work jumper, thumbs pressing against the firm muscles of his side.

“No,” Feuilly half whispered, half gasped because oh god he wanted this. He was backed up with his hips against the sink, his hands knotting in Bahorel’s jacket because the bastard was wearing too many clothes and all he could think was to get down to skin, to run his hands over the muscles beneath.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” Bahorel repeated, ripping Feuilly’s jumper and shirt up over the man’s head at the same time.

“I don’t want you to stop,” he replied, fumbling with Bahorel’s belt buckle. He glanced over the man’s shoulder to make sure the door was shut and locked. Bahorel paused to pull his jacket off, then his sweater and finally his shirt. His hands moved down Feuilly’s back, over the muscles toughened by years of back-breaking work in the outdoors, before cupping his arse and lifting. Feuilly arched into the touch, attacking Bahorel’s neck ferociously, not content merely to taste, he wanted to consume and be consumed.

He finally worked open Bahorel’s’ fly, reaching in to take the man in hand, smirking at the sound the action produced, the way his mate fucked into his hand.

“Want you in me,” he breathed, sucking along Bahorel’s jawline, pressing back against those huge hands which were rubbing and massaging his arse through his work trousers.

Bahorel huffed.

“That could be an issue…” Feuilly stopped, pulling back. _Oh shit_.

He didn’t have anything with him. He groaned, pulling back because there was no way, no way he was going to let Bahorel fuck him with just spit. Bahorel hummed thoughtfully.

“There’s liquid soap?” he said after a second, spotting the dispenser above the sink. Feuilly pulled a face.

“That’s… grim.”

“Well it’s that or please yourself,” Bahorel responded waspishly before grinning. “Come on, where’s your sense of adventure?”

It spoke volumes about just how desperate Feuilly was at that moment to even entertain the idea. But Bahorel was right there, hot and panting and looking at him like he wanted to eat him for lunch and he found himself squirting the pink liquid into his hand, muttering ‘what the hell’ before pressing his soapy fingers into his hole.

Five minutes later he didn’t give two shits what they’d used. Bahorel had hold of his hips in a vice-like grip and he was bent over the sink, gasping, watching in the mirror as his best mate fucked into him hard. His mobility was zero, with his trousers bunched by his knees and the toilet cubical barely big enough for one, never mind two guys having sex.

But dear god it was _good_. He was convinced the entire train knew what they were doing, and that any second the guard or the driver was going to bang on the door. He groaned loudly as Bahorel slammed into him again. It was rough and his thighs were sticky from the soap but he was so damned happy just be fucked by Bahorel once again.

Bahorel came first this time, pressed right up against Feuilly’s back, a forearm locked over his freckly chest, holding him close to keep them both grounded. Feuilly followed not far behind, coming into his hand, not caring that he gasped Bahorel’s name loud enough to be heard at least by the man behind him, if not anyone loitering outside the door.

Bahorel bit a harsh kiss into Feuilly’s neck before pulling out, turning carefully to grab some toilet tissue from the pathetic little dispenser that only ever issued one sheet at a time.

“You ok?” he asked, passing the redhead some tissues to clean himself up with. Feuilly grinned, trying not to wince as he pulled up his trousers.

“So much for not doing this again,” he muttered, eyes sparkling slightly as he zipped up his fly.

As they tumbled out of the loo, hair askew, clothes rumpled and a strong smell of sex following them down the carriage, it was glaringly obvious what they had just done. Mercifully the train started to move again once they took their seats and ten minutes later they were pulling into a station.

Feuilly flagged down a taxi while Bahorel called his mother to tell her they wouldn’t be getting there til the morning. She offered to come pick them up but he assured her they would be fine, that they’d find a hotel and be with her first thing in the morning.

It was a low-budget complex on an estate next to a drive-thru McDonalds and an all-night Tesco. There were only double rooms left and it wasn’t as cheap as it might have been but there was a bed and a shower which Bahorel was adamant he was going to make good use of.

Feuilly disappeared off in the direction of Tesco, muttering something about beer and snacks, so he took the opportunity to stand under the hot water, rolling his shoulders, enjoying the fact that he didn’t have to worry about Marius or Bossuet knocking on the door for once. When he finally emerged, wrapped in a towel, Feuilly was lying on the bed, watching some comedy programme on the TV, eating Haribo, and drinking a beer.

“Happy birthday, arsehole,” he grinned, chucking a gummi bear at Bahorel’s head. The larger man rolled his eyes, flopping down on the bed beside him and helping himself to a handful of sweets.

“I, er, took the liberty of buying a few other things,” Feuilly dropped the bag on the sheets for Bahorel’s inspection.

“Just in case we ever get stranded on a train again,”

“Or in a hotel room for the night?” Bahorel raised a challenging eyebrow. Feuilly grinned at him.

“Or, indeed, should we find ourselves in a hotel room for the night.”

Bahorel set the bag aside, grabbing Feuilly and pulling him in for a bear hug, ignoring the man’s half-hearted attempts at a protest. They didn’t need to talk about this now. Or tomorrow. Or ever in fact. Right now he was good with just being like this, in a hotel room, with the whole night ahead of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> usual thanks to my beta (who deserves an extra special thank you for spotting a glaringly huge error on my part in this chapter) *chuckle*
> 
> Courfeyrac is pleased about Enjolras because of the betting pool that is obviously in place about Enjolras and his (lack of) dating habits.


	16. Loving Nothing So Much As A Quarrel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, of course it was all going far too well...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, this chapter is rather angsty.  
> trigger warnings for accidents, hospitals and injuries.
> 
> content warning for language relating to depression.

_December_

In hindsight they probably should have talked about it. They should have bitten the bullet and sat down to at least make sure they were on the same page rather than making assumptions.

Not Talking About It worked for almost two months. In that time they fell into bed together semi-regularly. They usually fucked at Feuilly’s flat because it was easier for the redhead to get up for work the next day than if they stayed at Bahorel’s. Unless, of course, they hooked up on a Friday night in which case all bets were off.

Outside of these night-time liaisons nothing of their relationship appeared to have changed. They continued to buy each other drinks as they always had. There were no Public Displays of Affection, they definitely didn’t Cuddle either before or after sex, and Kisses were restricted to hungry, open-mouthed, messy exchanges while they ripped each other’s clothes off.

It was just fucking and both Bahorel and Feuilly seemed fine with that.

Then the Christmas pub crawl happened.

The evening started ok. The friends had all met up and Courf had handed out the itinerary. They had successfully negotiated four bars and now Feuilly was chatting with Jehan while feeling distinctly warm and well on his way to being comfortably drunk. It had all been going far too well, at which point of course it all went to shit. 

One of Jehan’s fellow literature students spotted him across the bar and came over to say hello. She was a sweet girl, blonde, with a lip piercing and a wicked laugh. It became clear fairly quickly that she was doing more than chatting; leaning forward slightly to brush Feuilly’s arm with her fingers, giggling every time he spoke, and Feuilly was smiling politely in return, being friendly for Jehan’s sake, but otherwise he wasn’t at all interested. After a while, realising that Bahorel wasn’t yet back from the bar, he turned round to see where the guy had gone. 

Bahorel had watched Feuilly for ten minutes while he waited to be served at the bar. He watched the girl, a total stranger to him, approach the table and strike up conversation. Then the flirting had started and Bahorel had waited for Feuilly to look away, to look round, to do anything other than nothing. 

He turned back to the bar, feeling unaccountably moody. There was no formal agreement of whatever-this-was between them, so really he had no right to be jealous. All the same, it irked him that Feuilly hadn’t made more of an effort in his rebuff of her advances. Assuming he was going to reject her. While all these things flew round Bahorel’s head, the girl next to him turned to leave and he ended up covered in rum and coke. Of course she was incredibly apologetic and naturally he assured her that it was entirely his fault and that she absolutely must let him buy her another.

Twenty minutes later Jehan wanted to kill the pair of them.

“What are they doing?!” Courfeyrac appeared beside him, looking confused. He glanced over to where Bahorel had his arm round the admittedly attractive brunette who, Courfeyrac was almost certain, had practically thrown her drink over Bahorel to get his attention. And then there was Feuilly who had a lapful of pretty blonde.

Neither went home with who they wanted to that night. They didn’t talk about it. They didn’t talk to each other properly for the next two months. 

Feuilly didn’t go to Bahorel’s for Christmas as originally planned. Despite his promise to Jehan that he would at least think about going, he rang Bahorel’s mother to let her know that he wouldn’t be able to make it. He assumed Bahorel hadn’t said anything because she was as pleasant as ever and sounded genuinely disappointed as he gave his excuses, namely that work just wouldn’t give him the time off right now. She was very good about it, wishing him a merry Christmas and telling him she hoped to see him in the new year.

Of course, work had given him the time off and now, because Jehan had gone home to his parents’ for the holidays, he had the flat to himself for nearly two weeks. He stocked up on alcohol and ice cream and determined to just ignore the whole festive season by locking himself away and watching terrible films.

He almost got away with it. Jehan wasn’t due back until just before New Years Eve. But instead, he made a surprise appearance in their flat at 10:30pm on Christmas Eve.

Feuilly was on the sofa, wrapped up in one of Bahorel’s old gym sweaters, or at least, that’s what it looked like to Jehan. He was halfway through a tub of Ben and Jerry’s, sitting in the dark and watching Home Alone. Jehan opened his mouth, found he didn’t have anything to say, so instead flopped down on the sofa and reached over to pluck the tub of ice cream out of Feuilly’s hands. As he did so Feuilly noted the bruising on Jehan’s arm, as though someone had grabbed his flatmate by the wrist and twisted very hard.

Feuilly shuffled into Jehan’s side, pulling him down so that his strawberry-blonde head was resting in Feuilly’s lap. They sat together in companionable silence watching the rest of the movie and eating ice cream. It was something else they didn’t talk about.

+

_January_

“Will you just call him!” Jehan was half way between begging and snapping but Feuilly ignored him, grabbing a beer out of the fridge and heading for the bathroom.

“I have nothing to say to him and clearly he has nothing to say to me,” Feuilly attempted to sound completely indifferent but he wasn’t fooling anyone.

He missed Bahorel enormously. Not the sex; the sex was nothing in comparison to the friend he was almost in mourning for. He missed their other friends too. He hadn’t been out to the pub with anyone since the pre-Christmas crawl and he had stayed away from the New Year’s Eve party which he understood had been held at Bahorel’s house. Not that he had received an invite.

Instead, he and Jehan had gone to a party thrown by one of Jehan’s classmates. He ended up fucking some girl on a park bench, their moans in the night hidden by the fireworks exploding around them. He had woken up in some unfamiliar house surrounded by people he didn’t know, the girl from the night before nowhere in sight. His phone battery had long since died so he’d had no choice but to walk home. When he fell through the front door several hours later for the first time in two days Jehan had pounced on him immediately, slapping him hard across the face.

As his cheek burned, Jehan had thrown his arms round his neck, sobbing into Feuilly’s shoulder and Feuilly figured he probably deserved that slap. He attempted to comfort his flatmate, and his embarrassment increasing when he realised Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Enjolras were also there, looking pale but relieved that their wayward friend had been found safe and well. The three friends let themselves out, leaving Feuilly in Jehan’s capable but decidedly furious hands.

Now, at the end of January, things were changing. Feuilly was leaving Chiswick House. His dream job had landed in his lap just over a week ago and all he wanted to do was ring Bahorel and tell him that while it wasn’t Buckingham Palace, it was pretty damn close. 

Feuilly closed down. He went to work, came home, bathed, slept, and then did it all again the following day.

+

Courfeyrac bit his lip as Bahorel took a sip of his drink. He had promised, absolutely promised Jehan that he would talk to Bahorel about this ridiculous nonsense that had gone on long enough.

Jehan and Courfeyrac had started texting each other regarding their respective friends after Feuilly’s uncharacteristic disappearing act at New Year’s. Jehan had rung Enjolras in what could only be described as hysterics because Feuilly hadn’t come home. Courf had been only too happy to go along with the others to offer his help and now they swapped texts almost daily.

Not that their texts had done much good. Neither of their friends seemed willing to be the first one to break the détente between them. 

Jehan had told Courfeyrac that he would try to speak to Feuilly if Courf could try to make Bahorel see some sense. At the time it had seemed like a good idea, but now, sitting in the almost empty bar, with Bahorel frowning as he always seemed to be these days, Courf wasn’t so sure.

Despite that, he took a deep breath and opened his mouth to begin the small speech he had prepared.

“Don’t fucking bother,” Bahorel cut him off, knocking the wind out of his sails. He closed his mouth, trying to assume an innocent and confused expression but Bahorel was having none of it.

“You think I don’t know you’ve been superglued to your phone for the past few weeks? You think I’m not aware that you and Jehan are plotting behind my back?” Bahorel’s tone was black but not angry. He didn’t meet Courfeyrac’s eye, only stared intently at the drink in front of him.

“So you’ve dragged me out here, you’ve bought me my favourite drink and now presumably you want me to talk about it. Well you can fuck off. Am I clear?”

Courfeyrac slumped his shoulders in defeat.

+

_February_

Combeferre had been thinking about this moment very seriously for about three weeks, ever since the letter had arrived in his pigeonhole giving him the news.

He had drawn up the pros and cons of doing it in public or private; neutral territory or home ground. Either way, Combeferre was convinced this was going to go badly.

He hadn’t told anyone yet, not even his parents, so he had no comparable data to extrapolate from. He could have told Courfeyrac or Joly or any of his other friends first, just to try to gauge their reactions, to give him some context. But he wanted Enjolras, his best friend, to be the first to know. And that meant making a few sacrifices and taking a few risks.

In the end, he sat Enjolras down in their living room when he knew they would be alone and undisturbed for at least an hour. He made them both a mug of Enjolras’s favourite green tea, even if it wasn’t completely to Combeferre’s liking. Of course, Enjolras knew that, which was something of an error on Combeferre’s part, because now his best friend was staring at him with suspicion.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Combeferre began, cutting straight to it. Enjolras remained quiet, waiting patiently for his best friend to continue.

“I’ve been accepted to go and work over in Ukraine for a year teaching English as a Foreign Language after I graduate.”

Combeferre braced himself as Enjolras blinked at him. Then his friend’s face broke into the broadest smile. Enjolras put his mug down and reached out to clutch Combeferre’s hand, squeezing it.

“That’s fantastic!” he enthused, eyes shining. “I’m so pleased for you!”

Combeferre wasn’t often surprised, especially not by Enjolras. He stockpiled data, analysed it and formed logical conclusions. Evidently in this case he had missed something; something important.

“This is just brilliant – what an opportunity for you!” 

Combeferre still hadn’t managed to say anything. He was over his initial shock; now he was just taking in the smile on his best friend’s face, one that went all the way up to his eyes for once. He tried to remember the last time he had seen Enjolras that happy.

“You don’t mind? I mean, I’m going to be away for a whole year –” Enjolras waved him off dismissively, shaking his head.

“Combeferre. You’re my best friend and I love you. If you didn’t take this chance I’d have to murder you in cold blood. This is your LIFE. And you’re going to be such an amazing teacher. The next generation won’t know what’s hit them with you in charge.”

The belief shone out of Enjolras’s face and Combeferre swallowed, feeling a slight pang inside. Enjolras was such a passionate person and it was sometimes overwhelming having that passion directed at you.

“I mean, of course we will miss you,” Enjolras chuckled lightly. “Sometimes I think you’re the only functioning adult in our group. But I’m sure we’ll cope without you somehow.” He pushed Combeferre’s shoulder playfully. “Besides, it’s only for a year.”

“It really is a fantastic opportunity,” Combeferre agreed, feeling the worry vanish from his shoulders as his face broke into a smile. He wondered what the hell he had even been worried about in the first place.

+

_March_

Bahorel was failing. There were no two ways about it. 

His personal tutor tutted as he flicked through Bahorel’s file, shaking his head. Bahorel knew his attendance had already been poor before Christmas, but since then it had dropped below 84% and he had failed to turn in the last three essays set by his lecturers. If he carried on like this he wouldn’t pass enough units to finish his degree.

The tutor closed his file with a snap, placing it on his desk before pressing his fingertips together expectantly. Bahorel didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have an excuse, because falling out with your best friend was not a good enough reason to sabotage your entire education. He couldn’t even promise to work harder. He just wanted it all to stop.

It wasn’t just the fight with Feuilly. He could only imagine Courfeyrac and Enjolras were secretly undead or some other species that didn’t require sleep. Either that or they had mastered the art of absorbing information into their brains while the remainder of their bodies got the recommended seven hours of rest. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the work, he just didn’t want to do it anymore. In a few months he would graduate and then he would have to get a job and then life, getting old, mortgage, bills, council tax, and Bahorel didn’t want it. He didn’t want any of it. He wanted it all to stop.

As he strolled towards the library in search of his course mates, he could almost hear the massive lecture he’d have received from Feuilly about how education was a gift. He went cold as a very tiny part of his brain heaved a sigh of relief that, as they weren’t actually talking right now, he would be spared that ordeal. 

Bahorel was disgusted with himself. He was the worst possible person. If he was going to have thoughts like that about a guy who had been his best friend for so long, who had been nothing but loyal to him before they had complicated things with sex, then Feuilly was better off without him.

Enjolras didn’t even look up when Bahorel joined them, though Courfeyrac shot him a smile which swiftly turned to concern at sight of his friend’s grim face. Bahorel shrugged, shaking his head. He didn’t want to talk about it. He took out a text book and pretended to read it. In a library, nobody questions it when you’re unusually quiet.

They had just left the library, walking towards a café as Courfeyrac had just convinced Enjolras to take a break in order to seek out some sustenance (“Because us mere mortals need to eat,” he’d reminded his mate with a grin), when Bahorel’s phone rang.

“Hello, Jehan,” he answered in a resigned tone of voice. He was just a little too tired, too numb to ignore his phone. Jehan was a nice guy and Bahorel had no quarrel with him, even if he suspected he was about to be lectured about what a terrible friend he was being at the moment. Given that he was currently being lectured left, right, and centre for being terrible at everything else it felt only fair to give Jehan his turn.

“I’m really sorry, please don’t hang up,” Jehan’s voice was trembling, unusually fragile and Bahorel felt a stab in his gut.

“I’m not going to hang up on you, Jehan. What’s wrong?” He noted the two heads of his friends snap round when they heard who was on the phone. He stopped walking as though it would somehow make him hear better; Jehan sounded far away.

“I just had a call from Kings College Hospital,” Jehan continued. “Feuilly’s had an accident at work. I’m in Norwich right now on a field trip and I can’t get back til tonight and he’s all alone –”

“What kind of accident?” Bahorel’s blood ran cold in his veins and all the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

“They wouldn’t say on the phone. But… but he…” Jehan’s voice faltered. “He quit his job at Chiswick House in January. Richmond Park head-hunted him.” Bahorel waited patiently, the other two staring at him, waiting for details. Across the line he heard Jehan take a deep breath as though suppressing a sob. 

“Bahorel, he was taking a tree surgery course.”

_Fuck_.

_Shit, fuck, fucking fuck_. Bahorel swallowed. 

“We’re on our way. Let us know when you get back,” he looked over to Enjolras who nodded. “Enjolras will come pick you up.” 

“Thank you! Oh thank you so much!” The gratitude in Jehan’s tone was painful to hear. As though Jehan had actually thought for a moment that Bahorel would refuse.

King’s College Hospital wasn’t that far away; it took about half an hour to get there. In those thirty minutes Bahorel couldn’t stop himself from imagining every possible way Feuilly might have nearly killed himself up a tree, possibly with a chain saw.

His best mate had been head-hunted, and he hadn’t even known. That was huge news. They should have gone out and celebrated. They could have combined it with Feuilly’s birthday in February.

While he tortured himself, Enjolras and Courfeyrac managed to get him on and off the Tube, while contacting as many of their other friends as possible. Combeferre was on a school placement but would pick up the message when he finished at four o’clock. Bossuet was going to meet them at the hospital and he promised to let Joly know as he was in a lecture.

It was Enjolras who took charge at the hospital, presenting themselves at the reception desk. They were shown into a side room which, in Bahorel’s mind, was never a good thing. Normally this was the bit when the doctor came in and told them the worst. He didn’t shy away from Courfeyrac’s hand when it found his, his friend squeezing reassuringly.

+

The last thing Feuilly thought before hitting the ground was that he might have made a terrible error. That, and the fact that it took far longer for him to fall out of a tree than expected, which meant that he had plenty of time to think about the ground rushing up to meet him. It was only fifteen feet. It might not be enough to kill him, necessarily. But it was going to hurt.

After that, it was just pain. Pain and loud noises and questions and people; but mostly pain. He wondered why he didn’t feel more panicked by the tremendous pain in his back, or the pins and needles in his neck. Or the fact that he couldn’t feel his toes.

Now in the safety of A&E, half out of his brain on morphine, he stared up at the ceiling as he was poked and rolled and prodded and sent for x-rays and scans. The doctors were all lovely, calm and efficient, quietly getting on with whatever they needed to do.

He ignored the words he didn’t understand, and tried not to think about the ones he did. _X-ray shows displaced tibial fracture. External fixation may be required. Some loss of sensation in toes. Possible compression fracture of L2 vertebral body. Recommend CAT Scan._

“Your friends are here,” a nurse appeared in his line of vision just after he was settled back in the bay after the scan. He was still immobilised, forced to stare at the ceiling and let his ears tell him what was going on in the rest of the room.

“Friends?” Feuilly tried to get his brain to work, to try to understand why the nurse was referring to multiple people when he was fairly certain he had asked them to contact only one.

“Is there a skinny, strawberry-blond guy?” Feuilly sighed, closing his eyes. The nurse wrinkled his forehead.

“Er, there’s a tall blond?” he offered and Feuilly opened his eyes in surprise.

“That’ll be Enjolras. So chances are there’s a lanky guy with glasses and a shorter, broader guy with wavy brown hair.” The nurse grinned at him.

“Five points for broad, brown-haired guy. The other one is massive, with a mohawk. No glasses.”

Feuilly frowned. Bahorel was here. How was that possible?

“Mohawk guy, please,” he said after a moment’s pause. The face of the nurse disappeared.

+

A man in scrubs came through the door and Bahorel would have had heart failure if it wasn’t for the fact the guy was smiling. He pointed at Bahorel.

“I’ve had a request for ‘mohawk guy’,” Bahorel made an undignified choking noise and Courfeyrac shot him a wide-eyed look, just verging on a smile. “If the rest of you could just wait here for a moment.”

The nurse drew back the blue curtain and shepherded Bahorel towards the trolley. He took in the sight of Feuilly in a neck brace, covered from neck to toe in a blanket, lying on his back staring up at the ceiling. At first he felt relief because Feuilly didn’t appear to be missing any limbs and there was a noticeable absence of blood.

“Hey,” Bahorel muttered, eyes flicking over the various monitors and machines to which Feuilly was attached. Feuilly’s eyes sought him out and for the first time in far too long, the two men looked at each other.

“Hey,” Feuilly returned after a moment’s silence.

Bahorel didn’t ask him how he was, or if he was ok, because Bahorel wasn’t an arsehole. Or, at least, he was going to stop being an arsehole right now. 

“I’m sorry,” Bahorel’s tone was firm. He didn’t care if Feuilly accepted his apology or not, and he fully expected the guy to tell him to fuck off, but it wouldn’t matter because the important bit was that he apologised.

“Don’t do that,” Feuilly gritted his teeth, eyes on the ceiling rather than Bahorel. “Don’t fucking apologise because I’ve broken my fucking back. Don’t pity me.”

Bahorel drew breath sharply. He felt vaguely sick, but also somewhat detached from the world around him.

“You’ve what?” Bahorel was surprised at how level his tone was considering the rushing noise in his ears and the general sensation that his world was collapsing around him.

“Didn’t they tell you?” Feuilly’s eyes moved to the side, surprise colouring his tone.

“No. No one’s said anything.” Bahorel swallowed, throat suddenly very dry. Was that why Feuilly was only moving his eyes, why he was lying so unnaturally straight on the bed? Surely his best friend wasn’t paralysed. 

Bahorel’s arm flinched as though to reach out, to touch Feuilly, but he arrested the movement in case it was unwelcome. Feuilly huffed at him and then his hand snaked out from under the blue blanket, holding out in invitation and Bahorel could have cried with relief because Feuilly at least could move his arms. When Bahorel took it he appreciated how warm, calloused and familiar it was. 

“I’m scared, ‘Rel,” Feuilly murmured quietly. He didn’t say anything else but he didn’t need to. Bahorel squeezed his hand, not sure what to say to that. 

In the end, Bahorel was spared having to make small talk by the arrival of doctors. There was a flurry of activity as Feuilly was subjected to a neurological exam, testing his reflexes, muscles and sensory perception. Bahorel stood out of the way up against the wall, watching Feuilly’s impassive face as he answered the volley of questions. He got his first glimpse of Feuilly’s left leg which was still compacted; broken but not yet in a cast. 

“Well, I’ve got some good news for you,” the registrar said, leaning forward so that she was in Feuilly’s line of sight.

Bahorel listened, wishing Joly was here to translate some of this into layman’s terms. He was glad the registrar had started with the phrase “good news” because compression fractures and external fixings and surgery didn’t sound all that good to him.

“There’s no damage to your neck at all, so the neck brace can come off. We’ll get you into surgery to get you pinned, and then we’ll discuss the long term plan for your back.” 

“What about the numbness in my toes?” Feuilly stared up at the registrar and Bahorel held his breath.

“Once the inflammation goes down in your spine full sensation should return,” the registrar was nodding her head, smiling at her patient who was still chewing his lip. There was a pause as the nurses moved around him, removing his neck brace. 

The activity in the bay started to increase at that point, and Bahorel was asked to go and wait with his friends in the waiting area. Before he left, Feuilly caught his hand again.

“Are you going to stay?” Feuilly stared up at him, his pale freckly face looking rather doubtful. Bahorel didn’t even think about it.

“Course I’m going to fucking stay!” he replied, before clamping his free hand over his mouth in embarrassment. The nurses exchanged a smile, stifling their giggles.

“In the meantime, while they turn you into Robocop I’m going to get Joly to explain whatever it was that registrar just said using words of one syllable.”

Feuilly gave him one of his rare genuine smiles. He looked tired and his face was marked with evident pain and discomfort but already he looked a lot better than he had when Bahorel had first come in.

“See you in a bit, mate.”

When Bahorel returned to the waiting room, he was pounced upon by Joly who had arrived with Bossuet. Enjolras had left to go pick up Jehan from the station but his presence had been replaced with Combeferre. There were several rounds of questions and Bahorel tried to answer them as best as he could. 

When Jehan arrived about an hour later, Bahorel went outside to talk to him so Jehan could listen and smoke nervously at the same time. After he finished explaining, some of it fleshed out by Joly’s valuable input, Jehan crushed the cigarette butt beneath his heel before throwing his arms around Bahorel.

“Thank you for coming,” Jehan murmured into the larger man’s chest. Bahorel huffed, embarrassed.

“I’d rather you punched me than thanked me,” he muttered, hugging Jehan tightly in return. He felt the man giggle in his arms.

“If I punch you I’d have to punch Feuilly too and I understand that punching people with broken backs and legs is generally frowned upon,” Jehan swept a hand across his eyes but he remained smiling.

“However, when he’s better, the pair of you are going to be in so much fucking trouble your feet won’t touch the ground.” Jehan was obviously trying to look ferocious but it wasn’t very successful, his face breaking into an exhausted smile. Bahorel returned it shyly.

“I look forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Feuilly! These two - no wonder Jehan is going to knock their heads together.   
> Obviously neither one of them is at fault to start with and they're both as bad as each other - they really should have talked, communicated and otherwise discussed what the hell was going on with them. 
> 
> Cheers to Cat for getting this back to me as promised - despite the wine :-p x


	17. Imitation of Dignity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the accident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo, warnings for hospitals and shouting, needles and (legal) use of morphine
> 
> I'm sorry this has taken me so long to update - life has been unexpectedly hectic :)  
> also a massive thank you to Cat for managing to beta this even though she's up to her eyeballs with stuff right now - massively appreciated x

Bahorel stomped up the path and rang the doorbell before he could change his mind. The sudden spring shower had caught him by surprise and he couldn’t help but shiver as he waited for someone to answer the door.

“Hey,” Enjolras greeted him, a surprised smile crossing his features. “Courf isn’t here right now.”

Enjolras stepped aside anyway, letting Bahorel into the safety of the hallway out of the rain, despite his assumption that the other man couldn’t possibly be there to see him. It wasn’t necessarily an unfair assumption; while Bahorel and Enjolras were good friends, Bahorel would consider himself closer to Courf, especially in recent months when the two had become almost inseparable. 

“Actually,” Bahorel coughed awkwardly, running his hand through his dripping hair, “I’m here to see you.”

+

After Feuilly went into surgery, everyone had stayed at the hospital, waiting for news. Eventually, just after eleven o’clock that night, they were advised that the procedure had been a success and that Feuilly was now in recovery waiting to be admitted. There were hugs of relief all round but requests to see their friend had been refused. They would have to come back during visiting hours, same as everyone else. For now, the poor guy needed some rest.

There had been little point in sticking around after that. They made sure that no one travelled home alone, and Bahorel had insisted that Jehan come home with him because he knew Feuilly wouldn’t want his flatmate to be home on his own right now.

Bahorel hadn’t slept much that night. He sat up until three o’clock with a hundred thoughts running through his head. Mostly he thought about Feuilly, about how another foot or two and his best friend could have severely damaged his spinal cord or even broken his neck. He thought about how Jehan had sounded on the phone, as though he honestly didn’t think Bahorel would go to the hospital in his best friend’s time of need; the way Feuilly had asked him to stay, the doubt on his friend’s face followed by that devastating smile when he said he would.

Huh. Some friend he had been to Feuilly in recent months. Feuilly had told him, right back at the very beginning, that their having sex was a bad idea. He should have listened. Bahorel continued to mentally batter and berate himself for a while longer, before his brain found other things to torture him with.

His fucking degree; his mother, Feuilly and everyone else was going to be so disappointed in him when they found out the truth; that he was a failure and that he had thrown his degree away. He thought back to his first year and his decision to persevere despite his doubts. With Enjolras’s help he had done better. 

It wasn’t as if the work was particularly hard. It was a challenge, certainly, but then Bahorel had always enjoyed challenges. He liked getting his teeth into things, liked having brains as well as brawn. So many people saw him and judged him as being just another meathead, all his brain cells in his biceps. But Feuilly had always seen through all that, had always seen him.

The fact was that he just hadn’t committed to his work during the last few months, which had been complete self-sabotage on his part and now he was going to pay the price. 

As the clock rolled over to 3:07 am Bahorel heard the kitchen light click on downstairs. Evidently he wasn’t the only one awake. For a moment he seriously considered getting up to talk to whoever it was downstairs, but decided against it because he wasn’t really in the mood to speak to anyone right now. His friends were amazing and he was lucky to have them but he really didn’t need to burden them with this.

Feuilly’s voice filled his head, chewing him out for throwing away his education. Bahorel rubbed his eyes in frustration, willing his head to give it a rest, not only because his mate was currently lying in hospital with far bigger problems, but also because whenever they had talked about Bahorel’s aversion to his education, Feuilly had only ever been patient and full of good advice. Without him Bahorel would never have thought to go to Enjolras and he would have failed in his first year.

Oh.  
Enjolras.

He could ask Enjolras for some help. After all, it wasn’t over until it was over. At least then he could go to the hospital with a plan of action under his belt. Then he might be able to look Feuilly in the eye, on that score if nothing else.

Bahorel must have dropped off to sleep at some point because when he next looked at the clock it was half past nine in the morning and Jehan was gone, blankets folded neatly on the sofa topped by a polite note thanking them for the hospitality. Bahorel had showered, hastily stuffed down some toast and then headed out to Enjolras’s house.

+

“So,” Bahorel summarised, “I’m going to fail my degree. Which, actually, on reflection, isn’t something I want to do.”

Enjolras sucked his top lip as he considered everything Bahorel had just told him before leaning forward, shoulders set, a sincere look of concentration on his face.

“What can I do to help?”

Bahorel wanted to bless Enjolras right then and there. He hadn’t judged, or made any kind of comment about how Bahorel should have come to him sooner. He just got straight to the heart of the matter.

“Anything,” Bahorel replied, unable to keep the slight note of desperation out of his tone. Now that it came to the crunch, he would quite literally sell his soul not to fail out of University. 

“I mean, I know it’s late in the day, and it was stupid of me to let things get so out of hand but I really wasn’t coping too well and I didn’t –” Enjolras held up his hand to stop Bahorel mid flow.

“It doesn’t matter. I completely understand that it isn’t easy to move forwards when you can’t see your path clearly,” the blond spoke wisely, as though from experience.

“Up til now, everything has been very clear for you. You passed your exams, went to uni and did everything that was wanted and expected of you. Now you’re nearing the end and real life is knocking on the door and you don’t know what to do next. It is an entirely normal reaction.”

Bahorel flushed. Enjolras was hitting a little too close to home.

“But that doesn’t really matter,” Enjolras continued. “What matters is what happens next. So,” he paused, pressing his fingers together as he considered the matter. Bahorel let him think.

“I think we should meet with your tutor to find out what hoops they want you to jump through to stop you from failing,” he looked up to Bahorel, eyebrows raised as though expecting some kind of argument or refusal.

“Whatever they want I’ll do,” Bahorel replied, voice grim with determination. Enjolras’s eyebrows went higher, face sceptical.

“Even if that involves redoing everything you’ve already done, doing special study sessions every day, spending Friday night in the library and not the pub?” he clarified. 

Bahorel didn’t even pause. “Whatever it takes.” 

Enjolras nodded; evidently Bahorel had given the right answer.

“Right,” he said, getting to his feet and heading towards the door. “Let’s go see Feuilly shall we?”

Bahorel felt instantly better. If anyone could negotiate their way into resits and extended deadlines it was Enjolras. With Enjolras on his team Bahorel was confident he could get his head back in the game. He had absolutely no intention of squandering this opportunity. If he could somehow get to the point where he could graduate with his head held high then he meant to fight tooth and claw every step of the way.

As they sat on the Tube in companionable silence, Enjolras turned to him, clearing his throat.

“You know Combeferre is moving out?” he enquired, voice casual. Bahorel nodded; he had heard. Most people hadn’t said much, not wanting to really face the fact that their guide and resident voice of reason was going to be absent from their lives for a whole year.

“You could always move in with us? I mean, Courf and I haven’t actually made plans for next year yet but we’re going to have to think about it soon. With Combeferre moving out, assuming we stay in that house, you could move in with us?”

Bahorel thought about it. He _could_ move in with Enjolras and Courf. He knew Joly and Bossuet would go wherever Joly got his residency, probably getting a flat to themselves. Marius? Well, he would find somewhere, he was such a sweetheart and seemed to be friends with everyone. 

On the one hand he knew Enjolras would kick his arse, make him go to lectures and generally give him the commitment and discipline that he was so sorely lacking right now. On the other hand, Courf was a massive temptation. The guy was bright and somehow managed to drink and party and still get good grades. Bahorel wasn’t about to blame anyone but himself for his current predicament, but that didn’t mean he didn’t recognise a bad idea when he saw one. Saying no to “want to come to the pub?” or “fancy seeing a film?” or any other juicy question involving fun and alcohol would be hard.

Of course, he could always ask Courf to tone it down for him and he didn’t doubt that his friends would be as supportive as possible. But it didn’t sit right with him that he should ask his friends to change their lifestyles in order to compensate for his own weakness.

“Can I think about it?” he said at last. Enjolras smiled and nodded.

“Of course. It’s a big decision and there’s a lot we need to do first. But it was just an idea.”

They travelled the rest of the way in silence.

+

When they got to the hospital, Jehan was already there, curled up in a chair next to Feuilly’s bed. He was in a bay of four on the men’s ward, set next to the window looking out over the city. Someone had drawn the curtain slightly to give them a bit of privacy from the other three beds.

Feuilly was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling while Jehan read aloud from a book. At the sight of Enjolras and Bahorel he stopped, smiling over in greeting. Feuilly followed his gaze.

“Feuilly!” Enjolras greeted him warmly. “Good to see you. How are you feeling?” He looked down at the tent of blankets covering Feuilly’s leg in a suspicious shape. Feuilly gave him a pained grin.

“High as a fucking kite with a shopping basket embedded in my leg,” he replied, eyes slightly glassy with morphine. Enjolras grimaced in sympathy.

“Still,” Feuilly continued, “When the doctor shoved a needle in my big toe this morning I certainly felt it so I guess it could be worse.” Enjolras blinked at him, paling slightly. Jehan must have seen it because he sprung to his feet, reaching over to touch Enjolras’s arm.

“Why don’t we get some coffee?” he said lightly, dragging Enjolras out of the bay and back down the ward, leaving Bahorel alone with Feuilly. The redhead watched them go, face crinkled slightly in almost childish confusion.

“Enjolras doesn’t do hospitals,” Bahorel said, just for the sake of filling the gap. Feuilly’s eyes snapped over to him. 

“Did you want to sit down?” Feuilly asked, arm flapping vaguely in the direction of Jehan’s recently vacated chair. “Forgive me for not getting up.” He shot Bahorel a cold, hard grin.

“How much pain are you in?” Bahorel asked levelly, fully expecting the rude answer he was given.

“The sort of pain that reflects a compression fracture in my spine, not to mention that the surgeons appear to have been playing with mechano when putting my leg back together,” he snapped. Bahorel huffed, risking a grin. He was relieved when Feuilly’s lips twitched in return. They sat in silence for a moment, Bahorel looking round the rest of the bay.

The curtains were drawn around the bed directly opposite. In the bed next to Feuilly was an old man reading a magazine wearing an oxygen tube; Bahorel could just see his feet sticking out past the curtain that partially obscured him. Diagonally opposite was a guy who was out cold, hooked up to a machine. He looked to be in his forties. It didn’t seem right, Feuilly being in here. This was an old man’s ward. 

“You can have a look you know,” Feuilly’s voice broke into his thoughts, his attentions turning back to his friend. He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“At my leg. Just lift the blanket. I won’t feel it, it’s pretty solid. Jehan’s already had a good look, you might as well.”

Bahorel shrugged; why not? He stood up, reaching over to gingerly lift the blanket. Feuilly started snickering as Bahorel attempted to be careful.

“Seriously I can’t feel a thing, just lift the damn thing! That’s it,” Feuilly slumped back against the mattress, looking up at the ceiling again, while Bahorel considered what was hidden beneath the blanket.

He could see what Feuilly meant. It did rather look like he had one of the old-fashioned wire shopping baskets sticking out of his leg. The large metal pins placed at strategic points along Feuilly’s shin from ankle up to his knee were all held together by a frame. It looked like a futuristic dystopian form of torture.

“Very Terminator,” he commented, dryly, letting the blanket drop. Feuilly hissed and he instantly froze.

“Shit!” Bahorel wondered what he should do, if he should call a nurse or something.

“No, it’s ok, seriously,” Feuilly waved him off. “Just sit down, it’s fine, it’s nothing.”

This could not be any more awkward. The strange camaraderie from before had evaporated overnight. Maybe Feuilly didn’t remember their conversation. Or maybe he did, but he was more lucid and less willing to forgive in the cold light of day. Bahorel couldn’t blame him if that was the case. He wished Enjolras and Jehan would hurry up and come back because this was unbearable.

“Jehan says we should talk,” Feuilly began, still looking up at the ceiling. Bahorel wondered if Feuilly had been told to lie still like that, or if he just couldn’t bear to look over at him right now. He sighed, scratching at the side of his head, the bristles of his undercut feeling oddly soft against his fingertips.

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” Bahorel sighed flatly. He noted Feuilly’s eyes shifting, looking at him sideways even if his head hadn’t moved. As he had the man’s attention he may as well continue.

“I hate that I lost your friendship because sex got in the way. I hate that it took you breaking your fucking back for me to get my head out of my arse and speak to you. I miss my best friend.”

The man behind the curtain coughed pointedly but Bahorel ignored him. 

“Isn’t Courfeyrac your best friend?” Feuilly still wasn’t looking at him, but his jaw was set and Bahorel could see the muscles flexing in his neck. He tried not to think about how those muscles flexed when he swallowed down Bahorel’s cock. Instead, he felt a flair of anger.

“Fuck off, Feuilly, don’t be fucking ridiculous. Courf’s a nice guy but you’ve been my best friend for fucking ever.”

The man behind the curtain coughed again, a little louder, while rustling the pages of his magazine. Bahorel was about to recommend him some cough medicine when Feuilly’s voice brought his attention back to where it should be.

“So I’m not just some guy you experimented with? Some guy you fucked?” Feuilly was looking at him now, eyes strangely vulnerable. Maybe it was just the angle they were at, but Bahorel had never seen him like this. Feuilly was always so strong, built like an oak tree, solid and dependable and always so damn certain about everything. Seeing him like this physically hurt.

“Fuck no!” Bahorel was absolutely appalled. “Jeez, Feuilly, is that what you really think?!”

Bahorel sank down into the chair next to the bed. Feuilly blinked at him, obviously really considering the question.

“No,” he said at last. “I didn’t know what to think. But it’s nice to have it confirmed that it wasn’t that at least.” Bahorel scrubbed a hand through his hair, not quite knowing what to say next.

“This is so fucked up,” he muttered. He heard Feuilly huff with amusement.

“I’ll say. So now what?”

“Agree we’re both idiots; that I’m sorry, and then try to move forward?” Bahorel looked at him hopefully. Feuilly rolled his eyes.

“Well I guess it would be just rude of me to tell you to fuck off after you came all the way down here,” he said casually before shooting a tentative grin over to Bahorel who risked a small smile in return.

+

“We should go back you know,” Jehan chewed his lip while Enjolras took another swig of water. 

Enjolras hated hospitals. He really, really hated them. It was the smell, he decided. They set him back years. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck and it was like he was sixteen all over again.

“How are you doing?” Jehan looked at him sympathetically and Enjolras attempted to stand up straight, arranging his face so that he at least looked like he had this covered on the outside, whatever he might feel within.

“I’m fine,” he replied firmly, fooling precisely nobody, judging by the kindly smile Jehan gave him.

They both got up and headed back to the stairs up to the ward, Enjolras continuing to sip from the water bottle. He could do this, he would be fine. Feuilly would be fine. Everything would be fine.

As they opened the door to the ward, they heard a shout, causing them to break into a run.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re failing your degree?!”

Enjolras followed Jehan into the bay, keenly aware of the nurses behind them.

“Really, I don’t see why we have to put up with your foul –” the man in the next bed was bright purple, magazine thrown aside in rage. Enjolras interrupted him, offering apologies.

“Forgive my friend, he’s under the influence of a lot of painkillers right now. He’s broken his back, I’m sure you understand,” he spoke quickly before snatching the curtain fully round the bed.

“What the hell?!” he hissed, glaring at both Bahorel and Feuilly. “This is a hospital! I can’t believe that you’re having a row when there are people here who are seriously ill!” He kept his volume low but his anger was evident and both Bahorel and Feuilly blushed.

The curtain was pulled back by an angry looking member of staff in scrubs.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she said firmly, staring round at the visitors. Jehan shrank back under the force of it and Feuilly shot out a hand to grasp his arm reassuringly.

“Sorry, it’s my fault,” Feuilly spoke up, craning his neck to look the staff member in the eye. “I’ll try to tone it down from now on.” She looked round at them with flashing eyes before glaring back at her patient.

“Last warning,” she stated flatly before sweeping out of the bay. Enjolras sighed in relief, drawing the curtain closed once more.

Jehan was rubbing Feuilly’s hand where it still grasped his flatmate’s arm. Feuilly’s other hand was currently massaging his eyes.

“I can’t believe you’re flunking your degree,” he muttered. Bahorel folded his arms defensively.

“ _Was_ failing. Past tense. We’ve got a plan, haven’t we Enjolras?” Bahorel looked over to the blond to back him up. Enjolras held up his hands defensively.

“Don’t look at me, I have no idea why we’re discussing this now,” he shot Bahorel a pointed look before letting out a sigh. “But as it happens, yes I have agreed to help Bahorel sort out with his tutor some kind of plan so he doesn’t fail.”

“See?” Bahorel grumbled petulantly.

“Maybe we should go,” Jehan spoke up, squeezing Feuilly’s hand. “It must be quite exhausting having us all here. We could come back later?”

Feuilly nodded, his eyes still closed. Now that Bahorel looked at him, really looked at him, he could see how pale the man’s skin was. 

“Yeah. I mean, please do come back,” with these words he looked pointedly over at Bahorel, “and bring some decent food for god’s sake because the hospital stuff is just foul.”

His friends perked up slightly, promising to bring him something nice when they returned. They said their goodbyes, squeezing his hand as they left. Bahorel was the last to go.

“Didn’t mean to upset you,” he said gruffly, face pinched. Feuilly rolled his eyes.

“I may have overreacted slightly. Blame the morphine.” Feuilly’s hand gripped Bahorel’s tightly. 

“Come back this time, yeah?” he asked, voice rather quiet. Bahorel’s lips twitched.

“Assuming they let me. Kicked me out last night. Said you needed rest, otherwise I would have been there when you woke up.” He saw Feuilly’s expression soften slightly and a few things about their earlier conversation clicked into place. 

“We’re really crap at communicating aren’t we?” At his honest admission, Feuilly grinned up at him.

“Bahorel? You coming?” Enjolras stuck his head back round the curtain to see what was taking so long. Bahorel rolled his eyes at his best mate, giving his hand one last squeeze before saying goodbye.

+

“Oh my dear boy, what have you been doing to yourself?!”

Feuilly was startled to see Bahorel’s mother sweep into the bay. Her son shuffled in behind her looking suitably sheepish. As she reached the bed, she swept a hand over Feuilly’s head, petting his hair making all sorts of clucking sounds.

“I’m fine, really,” Feuilly protested but he didn’t get very far.

“Nonsense! Broken back is hardly fine. Oh how awful for you, poor darling!” and to Feuilly’s horror he received a kiss on his forehead. He had never been kissed by anybody’s mother before.

“I’m going to see if I can have a word with the surgeon to find out when they’re going to discharge you,” and just like that she was gone. Feuilly let out a shaky breath.

“Sorry about that,” Bahorel sighed. “She insisted.”

Feuilly was tired and frustrated. He was tired of floating between being high and being in pain. He didn’t seem to be able to find any middle ground. He was bored of being in hospital. He found it difficult to sleep at night with the coughing and the shifting as staff did their rounds, checking on people. It reminded him too much of those first scary nights sleeping in the shared dormitories at St Margaret’s. 

His whole body ached from lying in the same position. His leg was itchy as hell but he couldn’t reach it to scratch, and even if he could reach it, he wouldn’t want to touch it just in case. The itching was driving him to distraction.

He was also worried. He knew that when he was discharged he wouldn’t have anywhere to go. There was no way he would be able to climb the stairs in his current state so he couldn’t go back to his flat with Jehan. He was worried about leaving Jehan alone for too long. He worried about the fact that he wasn’t earning any money at the moment to be able to afford to pay the rent and the bills. It was all getting a bit too much and he didn’t have the first idea how he was going to cope.

“Hey,” Bahorel was gripping his hand but he flinched at the contact, pulling away.

“Please, I just… I can’t right now,” the words came out scrambled, not sure exactly what he was trying to say. Bahorel seemed to understand though, as he sat back, leaving well alone. After a few minutes of comfortable silence Bahorel heard the unmistakable sound of his mother returning.

“Well, now. They seem to think you could be out of here in a day or so, as soon as they’re sure your leg has settled.”

“Mum,” Bahorel’s voice was low, as he tried to frame the words just right. He knew his mother was only trying to help but Feuilly looked as though he was on the verge of tears.

“What?” she looked genuinely mystified. She looked between her son and the boy on the bed. “You want to go home, don’t you?” she asked, her voice very soft indeed.

Feuilly swallowed, trying to keep everything under his usual meticulous control.

“I won’t be able to get up the stairs.” He explained eventually, when he trusted his voice to come out level.

“Oh,” she replied lightly, dusting down his sheets with her hand. “Well, why don’t you stay with Bahorel?” she turned towards her son, looking slightly disapproving as though reproaching him for not offering sooner. “You have a downstairs bedroom in that student house of yours don’t you?”

“Marius’s bedroom,” Bahorel replied.

“Exactly,” she turned back to smile down at Feuilly, a look that made his chest hurt. “I’m sure Marius won’t mind swapping with you for a few weeks while you get better. And then there’s whats-his-name, the one training to be a doctor,” she looked over to Bahorel as if he held all the answers.

“Joly,” Bahorel supplied and his mother snapped her fingers at him.

“That’s right, Joly. He’ll be able to keep an eye on you.” She looked thoroughly pleased with her suggestion.

“That’s not actually a bad idea,” Bahorel said slowly, eyeing Feuilly for his opinion.

“Of course it isn’t,” his mother replied bracingly. “It’s an excellent idea.”

Naturally, Marius agreed to it readily, more than happy to shack up in Jehan and Feuilly’s spare room for a few weeks while Feuilly took his bed. Feuilly was happy that Jehan wouldn’t be on his own, and also thoroughly relieved not to be in hospital anymore.

Marius’s room was transformed into a sort of sickbay. They cleared out a drawer to put all Feuilly’s medication inside. Between the other three housemates, they set up a sort of rota so that their houseguest wouldn’t be left too long on his own.

“You heard what the doctor said,” Joly threatened Feuilly on his first night. “Absolute bed rest. I don’t want to come home and find that you’ve been trying to do anything stupid like move on your own.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Feuilly had replied, somewhat bitterly. If it was just a broken leg he could have been mobile in a wheelchair. Similarly, if he had only broken his back he could have been up and about in a back brace. The combination of the two rendered him bedbound, something Feuilly couldn’t actually bear to think about. It felt so wrong to spend all day, every day in bed.

Bahorel was around less than Feuilly expected, something that he tried not to be bitter about. From what he understood, Enjolras had his friend’s nose to the proverbial grindstone. Having been granted a reprieve on the condition that his attendance for the rest of the year was 100% and that he turn in all his work to the new extended deadlines, Enjolras didn’t only want to get Bahorel to pass, he wanted to get him to pass well. He had managed to convince Bahorel’s tutors to let him retake the first semester of his third year, which meant that if all the conditions were met, Bahorel would graduate next February. 

Joly had promised him that, providing he was good and didn’t do anything rash – and assuming they had the agreement of Feuilly’s doctors - then at Easter they would take him out in a wheelchair. By that point, it was hoped that his back would be strong enough to withstand being moved like that. For now he had to stay in bed and rest, giving his body the best chance to heal.

Jehan leant him books and Courfeyrac leant him his laptop with various films on USB sticks. Feuilly found it hard to sit up for any length of time, so he ended up having them playing in the background while he remained on his back, imagining the scene.

Bossuet downloaded some audio books and standup comedy routines which proved much more successful. Feuilly was grateful to his friends, he really was. But by the end of the second week he was beginning to get cabin fever.

Every part of him ached. He couldn’t tell what was pain and what was boredom. He was tired of strip washes and bed baths, of lying on his back. He swore that as soon as the pins were taken out of his leg and his L2 was no longer compressed then he would never lie on his back ever again. 

“I can’t do this Jehan,” he whimpered, all too aware of how pathetic he sounded and not really caring. Marius’s room was nice but it wasn’t his room. He wanted to be surrounded by his mess and his stuff. 

Jehan observed him with his big green eyes. He pressed a kiss to Feuilly’s forehead before folding himself onto the bed next to his friend, snuggling gently into his side so he provided a comforting presence without jarring the guy.

“You can, Feuilly. I know you can. It’s just going to take some time.”

“I’m just fucking lying here and I can’t work and fuck knows how I’m going to pay the rent next month –” he was brought to silence by Jehan’s finger pressed against his lips as the young man sat up to look at him fiercely.

“Don’t you worry about that!” he said, voice firm with passion. “Don’t even think of it. You just concentrate on getting better.” 

Feuilly stared up at him and slowly, Jehan removed his finger. They looked at each other in silence for a moment. Eventually, satisfied that Feuilly wasn’t going to say anything else, Jehan laid back down again.

“Seriously though, I can’t let you pick up the bills,” Feuilly murmured, voice low. Jehan sighed deeply in his arms.

“My folks give me an allowance anyway, Feuilly. Let them pay the bills yeah?”

It went against everything Feuilly knew. Nothing ever fell out of the sky but rain. 

“Stop being a martyr to your pride,” Jehan’s voice trembled slightly with emotion, as though reading Feuilly’s mind. “You’ve always looked after everyone else; why not accept some help back for a change!”

Feuilly left it, for Jehan’s sake more than anything else. There was no point arguing right now, but they were going to have to discuss it at some point. He would leave it for six weeks until his pins came out. But then they were going to need to have a serious discussion about their future because right now, lying in Marius’s bed staring at the ceiling, every part of him hurting, he didn’t know when or if he would ever be able to go back to work. And no work meant no money.

“Feuilly, please,” Jehan murmured, before pressing a kiss to the redhead’s elbow. “Stop worrying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title has been lifted from "From Despair to Where" by Manic Street Preachers


	18. Time May Change Me But I Can't Trace Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions are made about living arrangements and there's a leaving party for Combeferre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my gosh I am *so sorry* for the huge and unforgivable delay in updating this fic. I don't even know what happened to be honest and I have no excuses. But I promise to try not to leave it so long next time...

_May_

It wasn’t unusual to find Jehan in Bahorel’s kitchen these days, not with Feuilly still unable to return to their flat. The pins were due to be removed, at which point he would be fitted with an Aircast Brace. It would mean more manoeuvrability, although Feuilly would still have to take it easy while his back healed. He would also be able to start physiotherapy to get him moving again.

Courfeyrac grinned as he entered the kitchen; Jehan was bent over a piece of paper, a look of concentration on his face. Today he wore his hair in two thick braids and right now he was chewing the purple plaid ribbon holding one of the braids together.

“Everything ok?” he enquired, heading towards the cupboard with the intention of making tea. Jehan looked up at him in confusion.

“You don’t live here,” he scrunched up his nose, before blushing at his words, turning his attention back to the paper. Courfeyrac chuckled good-naturedly.

“You’ve got me,” he admitted, holding his hands up in defeat. “Cup of tea?” he held up a mug, questioningly.

“What kind of tea is it?” Jehan asked suspiciously. Courfeyrac checked the box in the cupboard.

“Er… Asda’s own,”

Jehan made a face and really, that should not be at all cute and Courfeyrac had to suppress a fond chortle of laughter at the young poet’s obvious disgust.

“Heathens!” the young man muttered. Courfeyrac took that as a “no thank you” and set out a couple of mugs on the side. When he looked up, Jehan was back to his scribbling again.

“What opus are you constructing now?”

Courfeyrac peered over to where Jehan had resumed the chewing of his ribbon. The boy set down his pen, sighing dramatically.

“I’m trying to advertise for a flatmate,” he announced, rubbing his face. Jehan looked tired. Well, everyone was tired at the moment. It was finals season and the drama with Feuilly accompanied with the worry about the impending graduation (or, if your name was Bahorel, impending retakes) had taken its toll.

Courfeyrac sat down at the table, ignoring the boiling kettle for now.

“This would be to help with bills and things?” he enquired gently. Money was a sensitive topic for everyone and he really didn’t want to go steam-rolling in and cause upset, not when he and Jehan had been getting on so well for the past few months. Jehan flopped his head down onto the table with a groan.

“I just wish,” his muffled voice came up from the table surface, “that Feuilly would just stop worrying about it and concentrate on getting better.” His frustration with the situation was more than evident and Courfeyrac felt a stab of sympathy for him. Feuilly could be extremely stubborn at times and didn’t accept any form of charity, which had resulted in many of the friends sorting things out behind his back with the aim of both helping him out and hoping he never found out about it. Jehan sat back up, taking a deep breath.

“But as he won’t,” he sighed, somewhat calmer. “Then I’ll just have to find someone to take the spare room so that rent and bills will be between three rather than two.”

+

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac clapped the man on the back in hardy welcome before sitting down next to him, giving him a hopeful smile.

“No,” he said automatically, turning back to his essay. Courfeyrac’s face fell into a pout.

“You don’t know what I’m going to ask yet?” he replied, using his most injured tone. Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him.

“I think you should call a meeting,” Courfeyrac grinned at him.

“And why would I want to do that?” Enjolras sat back, recognising that he was unlikely to get any more work done until Courfeyrac had said his piece and the sooner that was done, the sooner he could return to his essay.

“Because,” Courfeyrac continued, “We need to discuss housing arrangements for next year. Now that Combeferre is abandoning us for foreign climes,” Enjolras clenched one of his hands into a fist until the knuckles turned white, but didn’t actually say anything, “And you’ve asked Bahorel to move in with you and now Feuilly and Jehan need a flatmate, and lord knows what will happen to Pontmercy if you don’t get him organised –” Enjolras held up his hands, trying to bring Courfeyrac to a halt.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, but if I promise to call a meeting, will you go away and leave me in peace?”

“Of course!” Courfeyrac replied, brightly. “No need to get your knickers in a knot!”

“Why are we talking about Enjolras’s knickers?” Combeferre walked in, looking thoroughly confused while Enjolras groaned in despair. Courfeyrac could only laugh.

+

“So it’s between Courfeyrac and Marius, then?” Enjolras looked around the room, expectantly.

Everyone was gathered in Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet and Marius’s living room, scattered around on cushions while Feuilly took up most of the sofa. Joly had outright growled at him at the suggestion that he could sit in one of the armchairs and let other people sit down on the sofa. Feuilly had backed down, but also made it abundantly clear in words of four letters that he couldn’t wait to get his pins taken out in a few days’ time. 

It was a good idea, for everyone to get together to talk about living arrangements, as it appeared that quite a lot was about to change. It made sense for one of their number to take up residence in the spare room of Jehan and Feuilly’s flat; it would mean they wouldn’t have to go through the arduous process of trying to find someone new who would fit in with their dynamic.

Feuilly and Jehan had talked about it briefly, but it had been on one of Feuilly’s bad days, which meant that he had shrugged his shoulders in a non-committal manner, professing that he did not care either way, and Jehan had not found the patience to bring it up again. The sooner Feuilly was mobile again, the better.

Joly and Bossuet were immediately discounted, as they wanted to live together and the room in the flat just wasn’t big enough. Enjolras and Bahorel were similarly eliminated. That left Courfeyrac and Marius.

Bahorel was sitting quietly on one of the kitchen chairs, looking distinctly unhappy. In the silence following Enjolras’s pronouncement he cleared his throat.

“Look, uh, Courf,” he started, staring at the carpet. He really couldn’t believe he was about to say this. He liked Courf a lot, he was a good friend. But Bahorel didn’t need a good friend right now, he needed a kick up the backside. He took a deep breath.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, mate. But I really don’t think I should live with you next year.” He paused, but when Courf didn’t say anything in response, he continued.

“It’s nothing personal. I really want to pass my fucking degree and to do that I just, I need to be out of temptation’s way. You know?” He looked up, hoping that Courfeyrac did know. Courfeyrac looked at him for a moment, a puzzled look on his face, but then it cleared and he shrugged his shoulders.

“You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. I think you have a point. We’d probably start out with good intentions and then Enjolras would end up killing us both,” he smiled at Bahorel to show there were no hard feelings, before turning to Jehan and Feuilly.

“So,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “What do you think?”

+

 

_June_

“I can’t believe you’re actually abandoning me to deal with these idiots on my own!”

Combeferre laughed heartily, pulling Enjolras in for a hug. His best friend was joking, well, half joking. There was no actual anger or bitterness to his words, just a slight undertone of hysteria which, given the circumstances, was entirely understandable.

Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Bossuet were attaching as many clothes pegs to Marius as they possibly could and they weren’t being at all subtle about it. Jehan was curled up on the sofa with Feuilly, watching the progress with interest, but choosing not to take part.

The leaving party had been an informal affair; everyone had chipped in to buy the alcohol and pizza had been ordered right at the start of the evening. At some point a game of 21 had been instigated and abandoned, followed by a few rounds of annihilation from which Enjolras had abstained.

Combeferre was feeling warmly drunk and rather nostalgic. Never again would they all gather in this living room. How many house parties had been shared here? How many sleepovers and study meetings or movie nights? At the time they had felt like they would do this forever; just casually turn up at each other’s houses, as long as you didn’t come empty handed. Doors were always open, visitors always welcome. But not after tonight. 

After tonight he was going abroad. He would be back, of course. But then Enjolras would be in his own flat with Bahorel; a modest two bedroom apartment not too far away. Joly and Bossuet were getting a little house with Marius and another medical student friend that Combeferre wasn’t familiar with, while Courf would be moving in with Jehan and Feuilly.

Combeferre sighed. He was excited about his new job, excited about the future. But he was sad, as well. It was ok to be sad.

“You,” he said, framing Enjolras’s face with his hands, “are going to be fine. I’ll be back at Christmas, and Bahorel is under strict instructions to make sure you eat at regular intervals,” he chuckled.

+

Feuilly was embarrassed to find himself falling asleep on the sofa. He shook himself awake, trying to make an effort because this was Combeferre’s leaving party and it was a big deal for everyone, especially Enjolras. However, it wasn’t easy when his brain was swimming with alcohol and Jehan’s warm body was pressed up against him.

The dreaded pins were finally out, replaced with an Aircast Brace which certainly made his life a lot easier. For one thing, he had been able to move back into his own space once more. It had taken him ten minutes to get up the stairs (and it was easier to come down on his backside rather than his feet) but it was a massive improvement on the previous state of affairs. 

Courfeyrac would be moving in with them at the end of the month when the student lease on their current flat expired.

Feuilly couldn’t decide if he was excited or nervous about living with Courfeyrac. It was true that Jehan seemed a lot more relaxed around him these days, but that didn’t really mean anything and if he tried to bring it up, his flatmate closed down on him completely, refusing to even acknowledge that there was something to talk about. He wasn’t really in any position to call Jehan out on it because he was still tiptoeing on egg shells around Bahorel. It was true that they had made up their friendship once more, but something was missing; a spark had been lost and Feuilly wasn’t sure what to do about it.

He supposed time would tell with Courfeyrac. Worst case scenario, it would only be for a year. Once Bahorel passed his exams and Combeferre returned from his year abroad, then who knew what might happen? It was twelve months. Surely they could all live together for twelve months?

+

“You’re staring.”

Courfeyrac snapped his attention back to the cards in front of him, ignoring the flush of heat which he was certain was caused by alcohol and the oppressive heat in the house. Bahorel gave him a look that told him he wasn’t fooling anyone.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied airily.

“Like fuck you don’t,” Bahorel snorted, dealing out another card. Someone had suggested strip whist and when Joly had said there was no such thing, a war cry had gone up and now Bossuet was in his underwear, Joly was missing his shirt and Courfeyrac was about to lose his jeans. Only Bahorel remained fully clothed.

“I’m going to say this once; Feuilly’s been through enough. Leave the poor guy alone or I’ll break your neck,” Bahorel growled and now Courfeyrac turned to him completely mystified. 

“I… what?” he sputtered. Because he had most certainly not been looking at Feuilly. The honest look of confusion on his face gave Bahorel pause before the light dawned. Courf went pale, jerking his attention back to his cards.

“You’re not serious!” Bahorel coughed, eyebrows raised.

“No, I’m never serious. Good old Courfeyrac, always good for a laugh,” the man practically snarled in return. Bahorel held his hands up defensively, giving everyone a good look at his cards, before reaching out to place a hand on Courf’s shoulder. He was grateful when the other man didn’t shrug it off.

“Mate, I say this from bitter experience. Do not, under any circumstances, fuck up friendships with sex. Just don’t do it.”

Courfeyrac sighed. Bahorel was right. Besides, he was fairly certain that if he and Jehan were the last two people on the planet, Jehan would rather fuck his own hand than sleep with him.

In a few weeks’ time they would be housemates and Courfeyrac desperately wanted to make it work. He could be friends with Jehan. It wasn’t “just” friends or “only” friends. Friendship was good. Friendship was more than good. He could do this.

He could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say I'm a little bit devastated to be bidding adieu to Combeferre for the time being. But fear not, he will be back!
> 
> Title from David Bowie's "Changes"


	19. All Those Places Which You No Longer Behold And Whose Memory You Have Cherished Take On A Melancholy Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac, Jehan and Feuilly get used to being housemates and Enjolras takes Jehan and Feuilly on a roadtrip to Leeds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I need to tag anything. Just bucket loads of angst... :-p

_July_

“So, when are the house meetings?”

From his position on the living room floor, Feuilly could just about make out the top of Courfeyrac’s head. The new housemate had been there for just under a week and so far things had been going quite well. Courfeyrac pulled his weight in the kitchen, always happy to wash not only his own dishes, but any other pans or plates left on the side because Jehan had been running late or Feuilly had needed to sit down. 

He and Feuilly had negotiated a room swap so that Courfeyrac now resided in the bigger room by the front door so that he could come and go without disturbing anyone, while Feuilly was now nearer the bathroom. It was a practical arrangement that had suited both of them. Courfeyrac had initially offered the bigger room to Jehan, an act of generosity that had nearly resulted in their first fight except that Feuilly had swiftly intervened, explaining to Jehan that Courf was being generous, while letting Courfeyrac know that Jehan’s room was a sacred temple that no one was permitted to enter.

Part of Feuilly had wondered whether Courfeyrac would respect that boundary. He knew Courf wasn’t an arsehole by any stretch, but he did have a reputation for practical jokes and perhaps he might not realise just how jealous of his personal space Jehan could be. To his relief, the message seemed to have gotten through because Courfeyrac made no attempt to break trust and sneak into Jehan’s room for the sake of curiosity.

Now it was Friday afternoon. Courfeyrac was home earlier than usual from his new job at the law firm where he would finalise his solicitor’s qualification. Jehan was helping Feuilly with his physiotherapy exercises, building strength in his back and leg. Even though the fractures were healed, Feuilly still suffered days of terrible pain in his leg as well as limited flexibility in his back. His doctors were not satisfied with his progress and advised him strongly not to return to work as a horticulturalist. 

Initially he had taken the news extremely badly, locking himself in his room and ignoring everyone until Bahorel had pitched up, banging on his door demanding that he get his ginger arse out there and talk to him. Feuilly had told him to fuck off, so Bahorel had done the only sensible thing and had unscrewed the hinges on Feuilly’s bedroom door. Feuilly had gone ballistic and Bahorel had just taken it, standing in the hallway with his arms folded while Feuilly pretty much roared at him. 

“Better?” Bahorel had raised his eyebrows once Feuilly had stopped shouting, and Feuilly had found that actually, yes he did feel an awful lot better. Bahorel had then insisted that Feuilly take a shower, put on a clean shirt and accompany him down the pub. 

“Aren’t you under house arrest?” Feuilly had tried to put up a fight but Bahorel had glared at him.

“Enjolras has given me special dispensation. Got my glass slippers and everything. Now be a good Prince Charming and put on your gladrags while I go find us a pumpkin and some mice.”

Sitting in the pub just round the corner, Bahorel had told him to fuck the lot of them.

“Doctors don’t know shit,” Bahorel placed a pint in front of his friend. “They’re great if you’re having a heart attack, but with stuff like this you’re always reading in the paper about some poor person being told there’s no hope and then making a full recovery. It requires a fuckton of work, but somehow I don’t think that’ll be a problem for you.”

Feuilly knew Bahorel was right. They were both fighting for something, both working their arses off in different ways. So, while Enjolras kept Bahorel’s nose to the grindstone all the way through the summer as they prepared for resits in the autumn, Jehan agreed to help put Feuilly through his paces. A crushed vertebrae was not going to keep Feuilly from doing what he loved and that was a fact.

Jehan was currently holding Feuilly’s ankles as the man stretched across the carpet. He only got twelve free physiotherapy appointments on the NHS, which meant that he only had three sessions left and he was determined to make as much progress as possible.

“House meetings?” Feuilly peered up at Courfeyrac, trying to work out if the man was being serious.

“Yeah, you know, where we discuss any problems and stuff.” Apparently Courfeyrac was being very serious. Feuilly sighed, pulling himself up so he could at least hold this conversation while he was the right way up.

“Do you have a particular problem in mind?”

Courfeyrac flushed.

“No, but I-“

“Jehan,” Feuilly turned to his other housemate. “Do you have any problems?”

Jehan considered for a moment, his head on one side.

“Well, I still haven’t managed to get hold of Juvenal in the original Latin and I’m probably not going to be able to make it to Pride next month because my boss is an arsehole about work rotas…” Feuilly smiled, before gently interrupting his friend.

“I mean about the house. Any problems specifically to do with our current living arrangements?”

“Oh,” Jehan made a face, looking up at Courfeyrac. “No, not at all.”

“Meeting adjourned,” Feuilly murmured, lying back down on the floor.

He could see Courfeyrac’s legs where the man was standing in silence, probably wondering if they were taking the piss, which Feuilly definitely was but Jehan probably wasn’t. He heard Courfeyrac sigh before the man sat down cross-legged by Feuilly’s head.

“Look, I wasn’t trying to insinuate that there was anything to talk about specifically,” he tried again, a note of defensiveness creeping into his voice. “Only Enjolras and Combeferre used to have a bi-monthly meeting to raise issues regarding the grocery budget and talk about anything that might be, you know, simmering in the background…”

And Feuilly could just picture it. Courfeyrac was such a well-trained housemate because he’d had Enjolras and Combeferre sitting him down twice a month for the past three years telling him everything that was wrong with him. Dishes needed to be washed up, laundry was for the laundry basket not the floor; if Courfeyrac hooked up with anyone he was to go to their place and not bring them home. In this new, less formal environment, Courf was feeling out of his depth.

“Mate,” Feuilly sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. “It’s pretty simple. Jehan is in charge of the bills. Try to be aware of your fellow housemates by not being a dick which, by the way, so far so good.” Courfeyrac gave Feuilly a small smile of gratitude. 

“But we’re not really a house meetings kind of place. Jehan and I have always done this weird thing called “communication” where I tell him that playing Al Bowly at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning is a really bad idea,” Jehan nodded, grinning wickedly, “and he tells me that loitering round the place feeling sorry for myself never helped anyone.”

“So…” Courfeyrac twisted his mouth, still looking uncertain.

“So, if we think you’re being a twat, rest assured both of us will let you know. Similarly, if you don’t like something, feel free to point it out. We don’t need to minute the occasion.”

+

_September_

It had been a strange summer by all accounts. For once, there had been no group holiday. Someone had half-heartedly suggested that they could go away for bank holiday weekend at the end of August, but nobody really had the money or the inclination. It hadn’t seemed right without Combeferre, and Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Marius were too new at their job to risk requesting leave so soon. Bahorel seemed to be permanently in the library these days and no one had seen Joly since he had started his residency at the hospital.

Feuilly had finally secured a job at the same bookshop where Jehan had started working after his flatmate had graduated. Feuilly had resisted the idea at first; it wasn’t that he didn’t want to work with Jehan, because he knew that they were more than capable of being a great team after their years working together in Covent Garden. But Feuilly’s pride held him back; he didn’t want a job because Jehan had put in a good word for him.

However, he was bored of being stuck at home, while his CV on its own was mostly relevant to gardening and horticulture. He hadn’t worked in retail since his part time job at the florists. Additionally, he still wasn’t allowed to do any heavy lifting or manual labour. He was more than aware that employers were not supposed to discriminate against him because of his injuries, thanks to Enjolras’s frequent outbursts on the subject. But it was odd how he was rarely called for interviews.

The insurance payout he had received from Richmond when they made him medically redundant had covered the bills for a while, but the situation was becoming desperate and so Feuilly had bitten the bullet and submitted an application form.

The bookshop was a pleasant environment, even if the owner was a bit of an arse when it came to the rota, as Jehan had so delicately phrased it. It wasn’t as if he was unfair with it; in fact he was quite the opposite. He was overly fair to the point of pure pedantry and wouldn’t even let people swap shifts without an entire paperwork process submitted, stamped and approved. Lunches were alternated between all the staff and couldn’t be swapped, no exceptions. It was all severely regimented. It wasn’t a bad environment, per se. But Feuilly missed the outside.

Still, a job was a job and the owner was sympathetic to Feuilly’s capabilities, happy to place him on till permanently whilst making it abundantly clear to other members of staff that they were not to ask Feuilly to re-shelve anything. Feuilly knew the guy was just trying to be helpful, but it burned his sense of work-ethic, even if Jehan had to remind him more than once that it was for a reason. Taking a back seat now would mean hopefully returning to horticulture and outside work later.

Jehan was happy because the bookshop held poetry readings and events on Thursday nights and the owner appreciated his input in the rare and second hand books section, even if it did end up with Jehan being one of his biggest customers. 

Now that summer was over, Feuilly felt stuck in a rut. The routine was stifling; get up, go to work, sell books, come home, eat, sleep. On Fridays they alternated between going to the pub or having a take away and movie night. Courfeyrac went out more often than not and he didn’t always come home until the following morning. 

Sometimes Bahorel and Enjolras joined them for a movie night. Feuilly hadn’t been sure how Bahorel would take to living with Enjolras but so far his friend had knuckled down and Feuilly was impressed. He wasn’t sure how Enjolras found time to eat and sleep, but he was impressed nonetheless. Every so often a postcard would come from Ukraine, Combeferre’s neat handwriting letting them know what a great time he was having, and Feuilly would feel a stab of jealousy because he had always wanted to travel, especially to Eastern Europe.

Feuilly wondered when he had become so grown up. It didn’t feel like three years since he and Bahorel had come to London. It hadn’t exactly worked out for either them the way they had planned it. Bahorel had nearly failed his degree and his career in horticulture had nearly come to an untimely end, not to mention all the weird shit that had happened in between. But they were making it work. Between them, they were getting somewhere.

+

_December_

“Enjolras, what can I do for you?”

Feuilly was surprised to find his friend on his doorstep on a Saturday morning. Jehan was in the kitchen making Eggs Florentine and Courfeyrac was sitting at the breakfast bar watching him with hungry eyes – though whether it was the eggs or the chef, Feuilly wasn’t entirely sure.

Enjolras smiled awkwardly as he stepped into the flat, apologising for calling so early.

“You like art, don’t you?” he enquired. Feuilly shrugged. He did, not that he knew how Enjolras knew that, though he supposed it was entirely possible that Bahorel had mentioned it. Truthfully he didn’t have much time these days. 

“Yeah, sure. Why do you ask?” He led Enjolras down the corridor to the living area, where the others waved a greeting and offered him tea which he graciously accepted.

“There’s an exhibition I want to go to and I wondered if you wanted to come with me?”

Feuilly wasn’t quite sure what to say. Enjolras was looking at him with such a serious and earnest expression, while over his shoulder both Jehan and Courfeyrac were staring at them out of curiosity; Courfeyrac in particular had eyes as wide as saucers.

“That’s… really nice of you to ask me, Enjolras,” Feuilly stuttered, trying not to let the pause go on too long. Was Enjolras asking him on a date? He didn’t want to jump to any conclusions but it was all a bit odd; coming over early on a Saturday to ask him out to an art gallery. Feuilly wasn’t sure what the protocol was.

“Normally I’d ask Combeferre but he’s somewhat indisposed,” Enjolras was almost pouting, as though his friend being abroad had been a deliberate attempt on Combeferre’ part to make Enjolras’s life difficult. “And Bahorel laughed at me when I asked if it was something he would like to do on one of his rest days.”

Feuilly couldn’t help but burst out laughing as well just at the thought of Bahorel in an art gallery. To his relief, Enjolras grinned ruefully, the tension easing out of the air.

“Then he mentioned it might be something you’d like to do. It’s in Leeds and I don’t really want to go on my own.”

“Leeds?” Courfeyrac piped up from behind them both. Enjolras jumped, as if he had forgotten others were there. “What could possibly be so important that you’d go all the way to Leeds?”

If Feuilly wasn’t mistaken, Enjolras suddenly looked rather awkward and there was definitely a red tint to his ears.

“Nothing,” he replied, apparently offhand but with a slight aggressive defensiveness to his voice as well. “Just an artist whose works I have a passing interest in and I don’t expect will come to London.”

“But you hate art,” Courfeyrac persisted, looking thoroughly confused. “Combeferre tried to take you round the National Portrait Gallery and you threw a massive tantrum because –”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Enjolras snapped. “Besides, this isn’t the National Portrait Gallery and you are not invited.”

“Can I come?” Jehan asked brightly. “A roadtrip to Leeds sounds like fun.”

Enjolras’s expression softened. 

“Of course, if you want to?” Jehan smiled and nodded. Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, picking up his plate and taking it over to the sink.

“It’s not a date then?” Feuilly blurted out. Now it was his turn to blush as Enjolras turned back to look at him, mouth slightly open and eyes wide.

“Er, no.” Enjolras coloured, looking at the floor. “I, er, sorry,” he stammered a bit more and Feuilly could have kicked himself for opening his big mouth. “I don’t really do dates. I mean, you’re a good friend and everything but –”

“No, that’s fine.” Feuilly interrupted because this was painful enough. “I’m glad it’s not a date.”

He saw the relief break across Enjolras’s face and the man braved a small smile.

+

The trip up to Leeds was pleasant enough. Enjolras picked them up obscenely early in the morning and they drove up the motorway, making excellent time. Feuilly let Jehan ride shotgun, content to sit in the back, listening to them chatter away. Enjolras seemed much more relaxed away from everyone else. He had an easy turn of phrase and a dry sense of humour that Feuilly hadn’t ever noticed about his friend before. Usually he and Combeferre were rounding up the hordes and trying to get them to behave. When it was just the three of them, he seemed a lot less stressed.

It was a small gallery, tucked away in the new, more metropolitan part of the city. From what Enjolras had told them, the exhibition was a series of American artists associated with the infamous JVJ group. Privately, Feuilly agreed with Courfeyrac that it wasn’t Enjolras’s usual style, but something had evidently caught the man’s attention. 

Feuilly was looking forward to it. He didn’t often get the chance to indulge his more artistic side. When he had been ill and bedbound, Jehan had tried to encourage him to draw and paint but he had been in too much pain. As he trod the wooden floorboards of the gallery, looking up at the pieces on display, he felt an old twinge of creativity. Maybe he should get a new sketchbook, or find an art class to do in his spare time.

There were some interesting pieces; artistic paint splatters that looked more accident than art which really weren’t Feuilly’s cup of tea at all. By the way Enjolras strode past them, this wasn’t the artist they were there for anyway. Jehan’s attention was thoroughly held by a series of paintings to do with water; waterfalls, weirs and vast underground lakes all beautifully picked out in watercolours and oil paints.

Feuilly stopped to admire a triptych entitled Montana Moonscape, which showed dawn, noon and dusk of a beautiful mountainous region where the sky was reflected in the still waters of a lake at each period of the day, all with a harvest moon in the sky. Such was the skill of the artist that the image almost looked like a photograph and Feuilly mentally made a note to buy at least a postcard of the triptych.

Eventually he found Enjolras staring at six or seven paintings grouped together under the title Breakout. They were mostly in black and white, except for the occasional smudge of red in a corner, as though someone in a red coat had walked out of shot during a long exposure. The paintings were haunting and Feuilly could almost hear the echoes of footprints in the apparently empty rooms depicted.

“’King’s Park Lunatic Asylum, Long Island’” Jehan read out from the description, before staring up at one piece in particular showing a metal bedframe set askew to the rest of the room, ivy crawling in at the window, shadows cast long across the floor. “It’s so sad, you can feel the darkness just bleeding out of the painting. Oh my god I LOVE it!”

Feuilly smiled, glad that Jehan was having a good time. He knew exactly what his friend meant; there was such a deep sense of despair radiating off the painting. It was captivating. 

He was about to step away when his eyes caught sight of a flash of gold, right at the back of the painting. Leaning forward to see better, Feuilly made out the echo of a blond figure just barely in the painting, as though the artist were chasing him down the corridor, or maybe the figure was trying to run out of the way. Feuilly shook himself. It was a painting, not a photograph. Nothing was there by accident. All the same, it was carefully placed, hidden in full view. It added to the sense of loneliness, almost as though the figure was a ghost.

“What do you think?” Enjolras’s voice made Feuilly jump and he turned to see his friend looking very serious, as though Feuilly’s opinion was extremely important.

“I think it’s great. They’re stunning pieces,” he gestured round the room and Enjolras nodded. “You can tell a lot of work has gone into them.”

“I wonder if any are for sale,” Enjolras muttered, half to himself. Feuilly raised his eyebrows. The paintings were good; excellent in fact. But if this was a JVJ event he didn’t even want to think how much a piece like this would cost.

“I’m sure they have posters in the shop at the end,” he replied, keeping his tone light. Enjolras didn’t reply, turning his attention back to one of the other images; a room filled with rubble and the slogan NO POWER NO HOPE NO FUTURE daubed on the wall in red.

Jehan ended up buying quite a few postcards in the gift shop, especially of the underground lake, as well as a few of the lunatic asylum paintings. Feuilly and Jehan had glanced through the price list of the original works, Feuilly’s eyes popping out of his head at the price tag of some of the paintings. The ones Enjolras had been particularly keen on (by an artist known as R, Feuilly discovered) were all four figures sums. Enjolras, to Feuilly’s surprise, didn’t buy anything, not even a postcard.

+

Feuilly spent Christmas with Bahorel and Enjolras after Courfeyrac and Jehan went home to their respective families. It was a quiet but cheerful affair, very lazy and relaxed. Feuilly was happy to spend some quality time with Bahorel as he had barely seen his friend in recent months. Enjolras was asleep on the sofa, his red paper hat slightly askew. Bahorel managed to take a picture of him but was talked out of putting the image on facebook in the interest of living a little longer.

“It’s been a funny old year,” Feuilly sighed, leaning over to rest his head on Bahorel’s shoulder. He was full of Christmas dinner and more than one beer. He felt stuffed and slightly drunk and more than a little sleepy. Bahorel was comfortable and there was a warm, comforting smell about him that made Feuilly want to stay right there for as long as possible.

He felt Bahorel snort underneath him, but the man didn’t try to shake Feuilly off. If anything, he seemed to settle a little closer to make Feuilly more comfortable.

“Fucking tell me about it. I swear, my poor brain is going to explode one of these days.” Bahorel grumbled, his slightly slurred speech betraying the fact that Feuilly wasn’t the only one who was a little drunk.

Feuilly closed his eyes, shuffling further against Bahorel’s chest. He felt strong arms come up around him and he smiled against Bahorel’s chest, an old familiar feeling of safety creeping up on him.

“Merry Christmas, Feuilly,” Bahorel whispered. Feuilly grasped Bahorel’s jumper, knotting it in his fists.

“Merry Christmas, ‘Rel,” he muttered, breathing in deeply. He had forgotten how intoxicating Bahorel was. 

He wasn’t quite sure who started it. Maybe Bahorel kissed him first, but it could easily have been him. He wouldn’t like to say, not for sure. But at some point he became aware that he and Bahorel were most definitely kissing. It wasn’t a lazy, gentle kiss either. It was the kiss of two people who were drowning and desperate. Bahorel was pulling at his jumper, while Feuilly’s hands were braced around Bahorel’s neck, holding the man firm while they lost each other and _oh god not again_.

“Shit, ‘Rel,” he pulled back sharply. His stomach dropped. They couldn’t do this again. Bahorel was too precious, too important. But he was right there, looking like a kicked puppy and Feuilly just wanted to kiss him and hold him and be fucked by him. Groaning, he leant forward once more and Bahorel let out a surprised sound.

“Feuilly,” he mumbled, hands successfully roaming under Feuilly’s jumper so that they pressed against the other man’s warm skin. “I just, I want you. Fuck.”

They were tangled and fighting and giving in to the other all at once. It was a mess. They broke apart, staring at each other.

“We could stop. I mean, shit, fuck if you want me to stop I will.” Bahorel looked intently at Feuilly and he could tell that the last thing Bahorel wanted to do right now was stop, but he also believed him; the sincerity on his face was loud and clear.

“Or we could go to your room?” The words were out of Feuilly’s mouth before he had a chance to think them through. “I mean, it is Christmas.”

As Bahorel led Feuilly towards his bedroom, he sucked a mark on the man’s neck.

“Just don’t hate me in the morning. Please.” Feuilly mumbled between kisses.

“Promise,” Bahorel replied before kicking his bedroom door closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My most profuse apologies for Sarah for making her screech (:-p)
> 
> Enjolras - I want to hug him or kill him, I'm not sure which.
> 
> The title is taken from the brick.   
> For people who don't remember the full minutiae of "Unhooking the Stars" - R's "Breakout" was one of the first series of his to be displayed in Europe by JVJ.


	20. Then Why Does This Feel Like Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel has some difficult decisions to make following Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this fic.  
> I love this fic so much and I cannot believe how bloody long it has taken me to come back to it.  
> My NYR for 2015 is to finish this fic and to do it properly because it deserves it.
> 
> Anyway, I don't think this chapter needs any tags at all. It is unbetad so all error are mine.

Feuilly knew he was awake because he was too warm and that almost never happened. Usually he kicked his duvet off in the night, even in winter, so most mornings he woke up with goose bumps. But the heat was almost suffocating, as was the large lump of a man practically on top of him. Ah, right. Yeah. Judging by the fact that he was nude and the fact that he was aching in certain places, Feuilly was fairly certain he’d had sex last night.

Bahorel. It always seemed to come back to Bahorel. It had been a year, a whole damn year since they’d last done this and Feuilly had thought, what with nearly killing himself falling out of trees that he’d be over it by now but apparently not. And, what was more, it didn’t seem like Bahorel was over him either.

Memories filtered through from the night before. Bahorel’s hands everywhere, thumbs tracing over his freckled skin, teasing at Feuilly’s nipples, sucking at his collar bone; confident fingers prepping him beautifully while Feuilly begged on his knees for Bahorel to hurry the fuck up already because this was a drunken tryst, a quick fuck while they could still blame the alcohol and the Christmas pudding. Except that it had been slow and gentle and suspiciously tender. Bahorel had kissed between his shoulder blades while fucking into him, before whispering his name as he came. The thought of it made Feuilly shiver.

Beside him, Bahorel groaned, the larger man stretching, reaching up to rub his eyes.

“So, uh, that happened,” Feuilly said, for the want of anything better to say, but feeling that he really should say something. Bahorel only groaned louder, pulling the duvet up over his head.

“Fuck’s sake,” Bahorel grumbled, the words somewhat smothered by the duvet covering his face. Then the covers were thrown back and he reappeared, slightly red in the face. “We’re not doing this Ok? We are not doing the painfully awkward dance of deliberately misunderstanding each other and not talking out of… out of pride or some other bullshit. We’re not.”

Feuilly could feel his cheeks pulling as he tried to suppress a grin. Bahorel was completely hacked off and it was more than a little hot, to be honest. 

“Sounds good to me,” he replied, lying back against the pillows, bringing his arms up to rest behind his head. It was Boxing Day, he was a touch hungover and slightly fucked out. Sex didn’t have to be complicated and he wasn’t in the mood to make it so. Beside him, Bahorel shifted.

“Well, good,” Bahorel said at last, voice somewhat gruff. Feuilly grinned, turning to look at him. Bahorel was eying him doubtfully. On his neck was a bruise and Feuilly felt a shot of satisfaction course through his gut to know that he put it there.

“We could do something really out-of-character and communicate like proper adults, if you like?” Feuilly’s voice was slightly teasing and Bahorel raised an eyebrow at him.

“The last time we had sex –” Bahorel began, but Feuilly cut him off.

“Was brain-burstingly fantastic, if I remember rightly. Good sex has never been the problem.” He sat up, so Bahorel would know he was taking this seriously. He needed Bahorel to understand because he was not prepared to end the year the way it began.

“The problem was that you went off with some girl –” he was interrupted by Bahorel making a strangled noise of outrage.

“Excuse you, if I remember rightly, I turned around and you –”

“OH MY GOD!”

Both Bahorel and Feuilly jumped as they turned round, falling silent. Enjolras stood in the doorway, his blond hair sticking up in all directions as he gaped at them, wide-eyed.

“Tell me you didn’t!” Enjolras glared at the pair of them. Both Bahorel and Feuilly decided the best course of action was to stay quiet. “Tell me you just passed out and slept and absolutely _did not have sex_ while I was asleep in the next room.”

+

When Jehan got home on the 27th December, he found Feuilly watching a film alone in the living room. After dumping his bag in his room, he came and slouched on the sofa, curling up next to Feuilly, burrowing into his housemate’s sweater.

“Hey did you have a good Christmas?” Feuilly greeted, not taking his eyes of the screen. Jehan shrugged.

“Not too bad,” he yawned in response. Jehan’s family could be hard work but at least he had actually stuck Christmas out this year. “Courf not back yet?” Feuilly shook his head.

“What about your Christmas?” Jehan asked, reaching out to take a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the coffee table. Feuilly feigned nonchalance.

“Oh, you know, the usual. Drank too much, ate too much,” he glanced at Jehan out of the corner of his eye. His friend was nodding his head, eyes fixed on the screen where a pizza guy was having the crap scared out of him by an eight year old with a VCR. “And Bahorel and I slept together.”

Jehan actually fell off the sofa, coughing violently around a mouthful of popcorn. 

+

“You need to go home,” Feuilly elbowed Bahorel in the side, a hint that Bahorel chose to ignore.

“Stop pretending that you’re kicking me out of bed like you don’t want me here,” Bahorel snorted, refusing to move. Feuilly’s bed was warm and comfortable and, more importantly, had Feuilly in it. Bahorel was far too content to move. 

It had only been four weeks since Christmas. He and Feuilly had battled the January blues by taking advantage of every stolen moment together. These had been few and far between and mostly involved Feuilly coming to the library and blowing Bahorel in the toilets, or else Bahorel popping in to see Feuilly on his lunch break, assuming that he wasn’t in a lecture or a seminar. But this afternoon there had finally been an opportunity to tumble into bed together. 

Somehow the winter chill seemed less cold with someone else warming one’s bed. Bahorel smiled to himself because it wasn’t just anybody in his bed; it was Feuilly. They were doing a remarkably good impression of functioning adults. They had talked about the fact that friendship came first. That if either had a problem then they needed to spit it out because crystal balls weren’t actually a thing. So far, so good.

All the work and study sessions and lectures and more work seemed worth it for moments like this; tangled up in bedsheets in Feuilly’s room while the January rains hammered against the window. Feuilly had gasped Bahorel’s name as he came, clutching the head board while Bahorel fucked into him from behind. Feuilly’s pale shoulder bore a raised purple semi-circle of teeth marks from Bahorel’s own orgasm. As Bahorel sighed in contentment it occurred to him that the world was being uncharacteristically kind.

As if to remind him how very wrong he was, Bahorel’s phone buzzed angrily on the bedside table. He didn’t need to look at it to know that it was Enjolras and he supposed he should feel bad about that.

Today was Tuesday which meant that he should have been in the library. It wasn’t a scheduled study session, per se. It certainly wasn’t a lecture or tutorial because Feuilly would never let him skip one of those. But it wasn’t often that Feuilly had afternoons off and Bahorel wanted to see him. Ok, Bahorel had wanted to fuck him, if he was going to be brutally honest. And apparently Feuilly had felt the same way because when he opened the door to let Bahorel into the flat, in lieu of a greeting he had pushed Bahorel against the door before dropping to his knees. He hadn’t said “aren’t you supposed to be in the library” until after they had cleaned themselves up.

But all the same, Bahorel should have been in the library at that moment. He had sent a text to Enjolras to let him know he wouldn’t be there because normally his flatmate popped into the library on his way home from work and Bahorel might be feeling lazy but he wasn’t a total arsehole. There was no point Enjolras going to the library if Bahorel wasn’t going to be there. Surely one afternoon off wasn’t going to cause too much damage. He would catch up the reading he needed for tomorrow’s seminar later.

He reached out to check his phone. There was one missed call and a text message which he opened to read.

_From Enjolras: Can I suggest that you put some clothes on_

As Bahorel pondered the meaning of Enjolras’s text, the buzzer sounded through the flat. Feuilly opened one sleepy eye from where he was tucked into Bahorel’s side. 

“You can’t be serious,” he grumbled, pulling himself out of bed, shamelessly exiting the bedroom in only a pair of boxer shorts.

Having a distinctly bad feeling about this, Bahorel started hunting for his t-shirt and jeans on Feuilly’s floor. Sure enough, there were voices in the corridor a few moments later before a confident rapping on the bedroom door. Suddenly Bahorel was struck by the sensation of having been caught by his mother doing something he shouldn’t.

“Bahorel, can I come in?”

It was Enjolras’s voice on the other side of the door, but it didn’t sound angry or even irritated. It just sounded like Enjolras. Feeling a little wrong-footed, Bahorel called out an affirmative just as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. The door opened and Enjolras entered. 

Enjolras seemed calm, his clear blue eyes not at all hard or accusing. He perched gingerly on the edge of the bed, as though not wishing to intrude. Feuilly’s head appeared briefly round the door, muttering something about tea before hastily withdrawing, but not before a freckled hand reached out to grab a t-shirt off the floor.

It was silent for a moment between them before Enjolras cleared his throat.

“Did you read that Nadja Alexander article in the ADR Bulletin?” Enjolras gazed at him, expression apparently impassive, tone light, but Bahorel felt his guts clench unhappily as though Enjolras had struck him. He shook his head. 

“What about the Lon Fuller essay?” Bahorel shook his head again. On his way over to Feuilly’s he had convinced himself that he could do the reading for tomorrow’s seminar tonight after spending the afternoon with Feuilly, even though ten minutes ago, he had entertained the idea of just staying in Feuilly’s bed all night, seminar reading be damned. 

His flatmate sighed, tugging a hand through his curls, screwing up his face as though torn about what he wanted to say. Bahorel wanted the man to yell at him, to tell him he was being a jerk and to get his arse out of bed and into the library if he knew what was good for him. But Enjolras didn’t. Instead, he exhaled slowly.

“Bahorel I am not your mother,” Enjolras looked at him, head inclined almost in sympathy.

“I don’t care that you’re fucking Feuilly. Actually, that isn’t true. I do care about that because you’re both my friends and whilst it’s nice to see you both happy, nobody wants either of you hurt which isn’t unreasonable after what happened last time but, all the same, you are both adults and it is entirely your choice,” Enjolras paused briefly while Bahorel marvelled that his friend was still breathing.

“However, I am not going to chase you down to do your homework or turn up on his doorstep and drag you home by your ear because you have lectures in the morning.”

Bahorel felt his stomach drop, cringing with guilt. As Enjolras stared at him he felt about two feet tall. Hadn’t he gone to Enjolras on his knees begging for help after Feuilly’s accident? He would have flunked out if it hadn’t been for Enjolras and this was how he repaid his kindness. Enjolras sighed.

“You’re exams are in three weeks. You’ve worked so hard and it’s nearly done. In another month or so you will have passed.”

There was a vague ringing in Bahorel’s ears. A month or so… In a month or so his university career will officially be over and he’ll be an actual adult in the real world. 

“I’ll see you at home,” Enjolras stood, just as Feuilly returned with a mug of tea which Enjolras declined as he exited the bedroom. Bahorel heard the voices fade, imagining in his mind’s eye Feuilly seeing Enjolras to the door. He felt like the world’s biggest shithead.

When Feuilly returned, Bahorel was pulling on his socks.

“I should get going,” he muttered, not looking up. Enjolras had been lovely and reasonable and totally not shouty but all the same, he felt embarrassed. Feuilly bumped his shoulder.

“What did he say?” Feuilly asked gently, his warm hand seeking out Bahorel’s neck in an intimate gesture. Bahorel couldn’t help but lean into his touch. He stopped what he was doing, turning towards Feuilly before doing something they hadn’t really done before, leaning forward to kiss him.

It wasn’t a precursor to sex. It wasn’t a dare or something that could be excused by drink. Bahorel was gentle, clasping Feuilly’s jaw with his thumb and forefinger, trying to memorise how this moment felt. Eventually he forced himself to pull back.

“This thing,” Bahorel chose his words carefully because he really didn’t want to fuck this up. “This thing with us, I really want to give it a chance.”

Fuck his life. Just fuck it because it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he was being made to choose. He’d waited his whole fucking life for an afternoon like this and he wanted more afternoons like it. He wanted to be in Feuilly’s bed for as long as Feuilly would have him. Fuck this, really. Bahorel took another deep breath, forcing himself to keep going.

“But I really want to pass my exams.”

Feuilly’s hand was still at the back of his neck, warm and wonderful. Feuilly leaned forward and for a moment Bahorel thought he might kiss him again. Instead, their foreheads met gently. Feuilly’s eyes were closed and Bahorel could feel his thumb rubbing against his throat.

“I want you to pass your exams too,” Feuilly said at last, opening his eyes and giving Bahorel a strange sort of smile.

“We’re good, though, right?” Bahorel asked, feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable. Feuilly was important, so fucking important and he needed Feuilly to know that. Feuilly chuckled softly.

“We are so good,” he whispered, and then really did steal one last kiss, nipping Bahorel’s lower lip before pulling back. He stood up, giving Bahorel room to finish pulling his socks on. The silence was comfortable if a little sad.

As they said goodbye at the door, Bahorel was suddenly struck by a thought.

“This is my choice,” Bahorel clarified, “Enjolras didn’t…”

“Oh, I know,” Feuilly rolled his eyes. As if Enjolras of all people would ever be such an arse as to give someone such an ultimatum! And as if Bahorel would ever be the sort of person to give in to such nonsense. Feuilly grinned. “That’s why I’m ok with it.”

It was going to be hard. But Bahorel had exams to pass. And who knew what the future held.

+

Feuilly couldn’t help but keep glancing up at the clock on the shop wall. He had been kept relatively busy that morning with a steady stream of customers but now there was something of a lull.

March was a funny time of year. If he was at his old job he would be coaxing all the sleeping bulbs out of the ground, clearing away with the winter sleepiness and bringing forth some colour as spring crept into view. If he’d been able to stay at Richmond he supposed he might have seen fawns. Feuilly had to make a concerted effort to stop his train of thought right there because the Richmond dream was over and he had to accept that. 

But that didn’t mean he had to work indoors for the rest of his days. His naturally green fingers had been itchy for months now. The book shop was never meant to be a permanent stop. Feuilly needed to be outdoors and now that spring was approaching he felt it more than ever. Especially today. Today was important; exam results day.

He had spoken to Bahorel at stupid o’clock that morning, his best mate fretting that he didn’t know what he was going to do if he failed. Bahorel had practically convinced himself that he had written nothing on at least two of his papers apart from his name. Feuilly highly doubted that. All the same, he felt nervous on Bahorel’s behalf. The guy had worked so hard. He deserved to pass. Fuck, Feuilly really wanted him to pass!

If Bahorel passed, if his best mate who had been up and down that ridiculous university rollercoaster for the past few years, could pass his degree and earn his place at the law firm to do his qualifying years, then maybe Feuilly could stop procrastinating and apply for the some of the jobs that Jehan had oh-so-subtly brought to his attention over the past few weeks. Perhaps Feuilly could also dig himself out of this rut and go back to what he loved. Perhaps.

When the phone on the counter rang, Feuilly shot up to answer it.

“Good afternoon, Balham Books, Feuilly speaking,” Feuilly somehow managed his most professional tone because it wasn’t necessarily going to be Bahorel on the other end. 

“I fucking passed. I got a two-one.”

Feuilly couldn’t help but punch the air with pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The funny thing is, most of this was sitting on my laptop ready to go having been written probably six months ago. If you are still reading this then you deserve some sort of medal or something. 
> 
> Stuff is about to get interesting. Combeferre will be back from Ukraine soon. Bahorel is going to start his job which means he'll be thinking about moving out of the flat he currently shares with Enjolras. Which means he might be asking a certain someone to move in with him... (shhhh spoilers)
> 
> Will Courfeyrac and Jehan ever sort themselves out?  
> Come to that, will Bahorel and Feuilly ever catch a break?  
> :)


	21. Please Darken My Doorway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac decides that his housemates need some quality time, and a certain Guide returns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hallooo! I bet you didn't believe me when I said I'd tried not to leave it so long. I am a snowman of my word.
> 
> cw for bones
> 
> I don't think there's anything else but obviously feel free to let me know if you would like anything else tagged.

_May_

“You know what we should do?” Courfeyrac bounced into the living room and onto the sofa, slotting himself neatly between Feuilly and Jehan.

Feuilly sighed. How Courfeyrac was in any fit state for bouncing when Feuilly knew for a fact he’d just done a ten hour day, was somewhat beyond him. 

“No idea,” he grumbled in response, unlacing his own work boots. Working for a London Borough Council in garden clearance and maintenance wasn’t really Feuilly’s dream job, but it was a return to the outdoors and a clear step in the right direction and he threw himself into it with enthusiasm. But right now he ached. He wanted nothing more than to strip off and sink into a hot bath and maybe con Jehan into sharing one of his Gauloises.

“We should go on a house date!” Courfeyrac beamed and Jehan let out an enthusiastic squeal that made Feuilly wince.

“A _what_ now?” Feuilly was too tired for this. Seriously, what drugs were his flatmates taking and why the fuck couldn’t they share! Courfeyrac clapped him on the back, jovially.

“You know, a house date!” he repeated, grinning broadly. Feuilly rubbed his eyes, counting slowly to five because it wasn’t entirely his flatmate’s fault that his patience was running thin.

“Courfeyrac, that accumulation of words made no sense the first or second time round. Please don’t go for a third, mate, because I’m really fucking tired…” Courfeyrac held up his hands, interrupting Feuilly mid-rant.

“I mean, my grumpy friend, that all three of us should go out together. Just us, for a few drinks, to catch up and hang out and have fun.”

Ok, so that didn’t sound so bad, though Feuilly wasn’t entirely sure why “hanging out with people I live with” needed its own special title. Both Courfeyrac and Jehan attempted to explain it to him; that they hardly ever spent time together as housemates these days and it would be nice to do something special, just the three of them.

It was true, the last few months had been extremely hectic. As Feuilly marked one year since his accident, he was by no means back to full health, but he was “a determined bastard”, as Bahorel so eloquently put it. He’d seen the council job on the website and applied for it on a whim. When he got the interview he figured it would be good experience at the very least. Getting the job had been a pleasant surprise but it meant a long commute to the other side of London most days.

Meanwhile Courfeyrac seemed to be in competition with Enjolras for who could work themselves to death first. Feuilly and Bahorel often found themselves swapping notes when they met up. Bahorel had finally taken his place as the most junior member of the team at the Firm, and seemed to be flourishing now that he was no longer in the constraints of the classroom. Feuilly was enjoying seeing Bahorel’s mood lift as he started to apply himself in the workplace.

But all of this hard work meant there was precious little time for socialising. The group tried to meet up once a month, but it wasn’t always possible and there was usually at least one of them missing. 

They house date was arranged for a Friday evening in two weeks’ time. Jehan wasn’t scheduled to work on the Saturday for once, and Courfeyrac asked Enjolras, Bahorel and Marius to help make sure he got to leave the office on time for once, on the understanding that of course he would do the same for them another time if it so required.

“So when you say a house date…” Bahorel winked suggestively at Feuilly as they shared a pint the next Saturday. Feuilly groaned, dropping his head to the table with a thunk while his mate continued to chuckle at his expense.

“No, it’s nothing like that,” Feuilly’s voice was slightly muffled. “Courfeyrac just gets carried away sometimes.” Bahorel snorted.

“I’ll say. He’s been fretting over what would be considered the right colour tie for such an occasion.”

This just made Feuilly groan even louder. A tie?! He hadn’t worn a tie since… since… his interview? Probably his interview for the Chiswick House apprenticeship. The only shirts he owned had grass stains that refused to come out. Bahorel, still laughing heartily at Feuilly’s predicament, clapped him on the back.

“I can totally lend you a shirt,” he offered generously. Feuilly shot him a flat look. Not only was Bahorel about twice the width of Feuilly, all his shirts looked like Jehan had been let loose with tie dye in the washing machine again. Bahorel spent a ridiculous amount of money on his shirts from a very particular purveyor of men’s fashion in Soho, and Feuilly didn’t doubt that they were of the highest quality. But good lord they were the brightest, ugliest shirts he’d ever have the misfortune to set eyes on. Only Bahorel could carry them off. 

“So, wait, hang on,” Feuilly suddenly raised his head again, looking confused. “Courfeyrac is worried about this… informal dinner amongst friends? Stop laughing, Rel, it’s not a fucking date!”

Bahorel’s deep laughter was beginning to draw glances to their table. Taking a sip from his drink, Feuilly stoically waited it out.

“Get your brain out of the gutter, arsehole,” Feuilly sighed, setting his glass back on the table. “Contrary to popular opinion, I don’t actually live in a harem.”

More’s the pity, he thought to himself with a sigh. Things were pretty quiet on the relationship front on their house. Jehan brought home the occasional one-night-stand from various poetry-slams and literary meets that he attended. Even Courfeyrac seemed to be having a dry spell; there had been a girlfriend for about a month, and then after that ended Courf had brought a guy home from a club, apparently in an effort to have the loudest sex in London. Jehan had crawled into Feuilly’s bed that night and the scratch marks in Feuilly’s back had lasted a week.

As for Feuilly himself, he’d been on a couple of dates with a girl back in April after she gave him her number in a bar. Unfortunately it was just as he started his new job. Being what Jehan had kindly dubbed “a well-intentioned workaholic”, Feuilly’s work-life balanced was skewed more to his career than his girlfriend, which led to various arguments and the inevitable ending of said relationship.

“Fuck them,” Bahorel had said, having dragged Feuilly out for commiseration beers. “Fuck the bastards. If they can’t accept you in all your Monty Don glory then they totally don’t deserve you.” 

Feuilly had tried not to think about the brief expression of sadness on Bahorel’s face as he said that, because that would involve bringing up last Christmas and he wasn’t sure he was ready for that. There was a comfortable, unspoken agreement to just stick to their friendship for now, even though Bahorel’s exams had long since been passed.

“Feuilly,” Bahorel was snapping his fingers in front of Feuilly’s eyes in an effort to bring him back to the present. “Stop daydreaming about a threesome with Jehan and Courf – it’s your round.”

Rolling his eyes, Feuilly slid off his stool and headed to the bar, playing along like Bahorel didn’t know exactly what he’d been thinking about.

+

[12:53] To Feuilly: quick reminder darling - table is booked for 6:30pm – see you at home x  
[17:27} To Feuilly: hey Courf wants to know if you need picking up from anywhere?   
[17:46] To Feuilly: I can’t remember, are you meeting us there? I thought we were all going in the taxi together…  
[17:58] To Feuilly: Ok, so ignore my last voice mail. We’re heading to the restaurant. Hopefully see you there. I’m assuming you didn’t pick up because you’re on the tube.  
[18:35] To Feuilly: Can we order you a drink? And an ETA would be cool….  
[18:42] From Feuilly: Soz, @work can’t call rly sory  
[18:43] To Feuilly: WHAT????? YOU ARE NOT SERIOUS

“Is everything ok?” Courfeyrac stopped midsentence from whatever he had been saying in an effort to fill the painful silence. Jehan looked up from his phone, sucking on his top lip in an effort to get a grip on himself.

“Uh, finally heard from Feuilly,” he replied, surprised when his voice came out vaguely normal. “Looks like he got held up at work.”

Jehan was going to kill Feuilly. He was going to boil that man’s bones and make them into wind chimes. Then he was going to hunt down and sacrifice Feuilly’s boss to whichever gods he needed so that he would never again find himself in this situation.

The restaurant was nice, really nice. The staff had been pleasant and welcoming, taking their coats and letting them wait in the bar for their missing housemate. Drinks had been provided as they sat and tried to talk about nothing, while Jehan glanced furiously at his phone as though trying to make it explode with his mind. Or else, just will the damn thing into ringing.

He had really been looking forward to this evening; he’d plaited in his hair into a thick French braid before choosing one of his favourite dresses covered in stars, some of which even glowed. The look on Courfeyrac’s face when he had stepped out of his bedroom had been entirely worth it.

As for the man himself, Courfeyrac was wearing a red and white pinstripe shirt with black braces and a bow tie. He’d gelled his usually wavy brown hair and Jehan couldn’t remember having seen Courfeyrac look this debonair, not even at their graduation ceremony last summer.

But now Jehan was fiddling with the hem of his skirt, having thrust his phone into his bag in annoyance. Now he was having an intimate dinner in a nice restaurant with Courfeyrac. All by himself. And it was entirely Feuilly’s fault. 

“We may as well order something, I don’t think he’s coming,” Jehan winced at how snappy his tone was. It wasn’t Courfeyrac’s fault. They should just try to make the best of a bad job. But really, what was the point of a house date if a third of the house was missing?

A puzzled, slightly hurt expression crossed Courfeyrac’s features, before his face cleared and he relaxed his shoulders. He smiled brightly at Jehan.

“Well, more fool Feuilly for standing us up. He gets to miss out on you in that gorgeous dress,” he flashed his smile and Jehan felt his ears go pink. Then Courfeyrac leaned forward, lowering his voice.

“But the real question is, how are we going to pay him out for ditching in the first place?” Courfeyrac winked, his face covered in mischief.

Jehan returned his grin; now Courfeyrac was talking his language. Vaguely in the back of his mind there was a really tiny voice reminding him that Feuilly probably couldn’t help it, that he worked really hard and his job was a long way away and didn’t conform to normal office working hours. But the rest of him was more than happy to start plotting revenge. 

Just as the starters arrived, they had already put together a plan involving nail varnish and Feuilly’s carbolic soap, while Courfeyrac was googling whether freezing paint brushes in Tupperware boxes actually did any damage, because pranks were supposed to be fun; they weren’t supposed to make your housemates hate you.

By the time the main course was being served, they’d moved on to discussing pranks they’d pulled in the past. Courfeyrac was in the middle of a story where he’d swapped out every DVD in Combeferre’s collection into a different box and Combeferre hadn’t slept until boxes and discs had been reunited. In retaliation, Courfeyrac had come home to find every item of furniture in his room had been gift wrapped in Christmas paper – complete with bows and ribbons. 

“Moral of the story being ‘never fuck with Ferre’” Courfeyrac finished, chuckling to himself at the memory.

By the time puddings had rolled around, Jehan was feeling relaxed and comfortable, the red wine they’d had at dinner providing a warm glow. Feuilly had sent two further texts apologising and saying that he was stuck on the wrong side of a signal failure and so Bahorel was going to pick him up. Jehan had replied “May Dog Have Mercy Upon Your Soul” before giggling and putting his phone back in his bag where it had stayed for the remainder of the meal.

Dinner with Courfeyrac had been fun. They hadn’t really spent much time together just the pair of them. Usually Feuilly or one of their other mutual friends was around. Jehan knew this was mostly his doing, that he had deliberately put up barriers in the face of his initial crush. He felt a pang of annoyance with himself because Courfeyrac was funny. Once he dropped a few barriers of his own and actually relaxed in Jehan’s presence, Jehan could see why Courfeyrac and Bahorel were so tight, why he was best friends with Enjolras and Combeferre. Courfeyrac was a wicked little sweetheart with a golden heart.

+

“You’re going to have to go home sometime,” Bahorel nudged Feuilly’s shoulder as he set a second pint down in front of his friend who was chewing at his nails. Bahorel, having agreed to drive Feuilly home as the Tube was well and truly fucked for the night, drank deeply from his coke.

“No way, Jehan is going to crucify me,” he glared at Bahorel, not that it was Bahorel’s fault. But really, he was supposed to be on Feuilly’s side, not advising him to go home to a certain and messy death. 

It hadn’t been his fault. They’d been sent off unexpectedly to a job clearing the garden of an empty house in South East London which had gone from routine to unreal after one of the interns discovered a half-buried bin bag containing bones. The police had to be called in and the entire area sealed off while a little white tent was erected in the garden and people with masks and hazmat suits ran around doing whatever it is that they do on such occasions. The intern, somewhat understandably, had to be sat down with a cup of tea before someone called her boyfriend to come pick her up.

On top of all that, there was signal failure on the District Line. Feuilly had called Bahorel as a last resort because he was already irredeemably late for his meal with his housemates so he may as well enjoy one last pint with his best friend before Jehan murdered him.

“Jehan is more than capable of getting through dinner with Courfeyrac without the world ending. Maybe throwing them in the deep end is a good idea,” Bahorel broke open a bag of crisps and set them on the table so Feuilly could help themselves.

“Those two need to stop dancing and sort themselves out.”

Feuilly just drank his pint quietly, keeping any opinions about “dancing” and “sorting themselves out” to himself.

When he nervously entered the flat later that night, he could hear Jehan’s wicked giggle coming from the living room. Taking the bull by the horns, he stuck his head round the living room door.

“Er, Jehan, why is there a traffic cone wearing my coat?”

Both Courfeyrac and Jehan were lying on their backs on the living room floor. Courfeyrac was shirtless, but was still wearing braces and, for some reason, his bowtie which, presumably, he must have retied round his neck after removing said shirt. Feuilly took a wild guess at the fact that the traffic cone was probably sporting the shirt underneath his jacket.

“Feuilly,” Jehan craned his head from where he lay upon the carpet. He was somehow clutching a glass of red wine without spilling any, despite being horizontal on the floor. “How nice of you to join us. Meet Colin,” he gestured in the direction of the traffic cone who, in addition to Feuilly’s jacket, was also sporting a familiar set of sunglasses and a bobble hat.

“He’s our new flatmate,” Courfeyrac grinned. “Say hello to Colin.”

Colin stuck around for three weeks, sitting on the sofa wearing Feuilly’s clothes. Jehan insisted on making Colin tea in Feuilly’s favourite mug, while Courfeyrac would ask Colin what he wanted to watch on TV. When Colin finally disappeared, leaving a note in the living room thanking them for their hospitality, Feuilly hoped the worst was over and that he’d been forgiven. But then he heard that the “bag of bones” that had started all the trouble turned out to be animal rather than human. That was when he came home to find his bedroom door gaffataped shut.

+

_July_

Combeferre was coming home.

Well, coming back to the UK anyway. He would be moving back in with his Dad in Surrey while he went flat hunting. But the main thing was Combeferre was back from Ukraine and he had been missed.

Feuilly had walked in on Courfeyrac skyping Combeferre on more than one occasion, always pausing to wave down the camera across Europe. Ferre looked just the same as ever, grinning broadly across cyber space. Similarly, he knew from Bahorel that Enjolras usually skyped twice a week, but sometimes emails and video calls just weren’t enough. 

Bizarrely, Enjolras became more and more unbearable the closer the time came for Combeferre’s flight home. Every other day, Courfeyrac returned from work with another wild story of Enjolras snapping pencils in half or accidentally breaking the photocopier by slamming the lid too hard or generally losing his cool with a printer refusing to print. 

Feuilly could tell Courfeyrac was missing his best friend too, and these last few weeks were especially hard, knowing they were so close and yet so far, but at least he attempted to stay cheerful about it, knowing their guide would be back amongst their ranks once more.

And of course there had to be a party. It felt like there hadn’t been a proper party since Combeferre’s leaving do, “because we’re all far too old and boring” Courfeyrac whined. 

Plans were in full swing. Bahorel and Enjolras’s flat was too small to squeeze everyone in so Joly, Bossuet and Marius volunteered the use of their house. Feuilly, for one, was extremely grateful for this after coming home to find Courfeyrac and Jehan attempting to bake 365 cupcakes – one for every day Combeferre had been gone. He had sensibly retired to his bedroom, and just thanked his lucky stars that Combeferre had only taken a one year sabbatical and not two.

The night of the party found everyone in good spirits. As Feuilly made his entrance with Jehan and Courfeyrac, his flatmates let out a shriek and leapt upon the man of the hour. Courfeyrac was practically climbing on his back, kissing his cheek with unbridled enthusiasm whilst spluttering that Combeferre was never allowed to leave them again. Not ever.

Looking round the room, it seemed that they had been the last to arrive. Bahorel suddenly appeared by his arm, holding out a beer which Feuilly gratefully accepted before stepping over to say hello to Enjolras who had a slightly glazed look on his face like he couldn’t quite believe Combeferre was in the same room.

Eventually, once Courfeyrac and Jehan had released their victim, Feuilly went over to shake hands and say hello. Combeferre looked so happy. He was, perhaps, a little thinner. His hair was cut shorter than it had been when he left, but he carried himself differently. They exchanged pleasantries, Feuilly wincing as he found himself asking the same questions poor Ferre had probably been asked by everyone else; how was it, glad to home, looking forward to the summer holidays… Combeferre answered them all with a broad grin on his face, nodding enthusiastically, saying that it had been a fantastic experience and he would love to go back one day, but for now it was good to be home.

Once the hugs and recriminations were over and done with, someone switched on the stereo and it was like their uni days all over again. Joly was in the kitchen, doling out drinks and providing snacks. Courfeyrac moved around the room like the little social butterfly he was, while Enjolras hovered at Combeferre’s elbow. 

There were a few people at the party that Feuilly didn’t know, fellow teachers that Combeferre knew from his course and a few other friends. At first they huddled in their own corners but eventually they began to blend with the others, Courfeyrac acting like glue as usual. He would start up a conversation, find out something interesting that they had in common and then call over someone else to continue. Feuilly had already been introduced to Rebecca who was taking an Art History Masters. When Feuilly mentioned that he and Jehan had gone up to Leeds to see the JVJ exhibit she nearly dropped her drink. 

“Oh, I would have given my right arm to go to that!” she exclaimed, eyes wide. “It wasn’t here that long was it? I am so jealous.”

They ended up having quite a long talk about it, as Rebecca was something of a JVJ fanatic and was doing her dissertation on the merits of such an organisation and how it influenced the industry. 

It was quite late when Feuilly went in search of his friends. Bahorel was on the sofa in deep conversation with The Other Housemate, the poor soul who had agreed to move in with Joly, Bossuet and Marius and so was, presumably, sitting in their own living room surrounded by strangers. Jehan and Courfeyrac were nowhere to be seen.

He found Combeferre sitting outside with Enjolras and was just about to go back inside and leave them to it, when the blond looked up, saw him and smiled, waving him over. Combeferre patted the stone patio beside him in invitation.

“Enjoying your party?” he asked, settling down and patting his empty pockets in the vain hope of finding a smoke. Combeferre smiled.

“It’s good to be home, I’ve missed everyone.”

“You’ve been missed,” Enjolras grumbled good-naturedly, settling his head back on Combeferre’s shoulder. “Never leaving us again.”

Combeferre ran his fingers through Enjolras’s curls as though petting a cat, smiling indulgently.

“It’s funny, but it seems like everyone has said that this evening. But you’ve all done fine without me, I am quite superfluous!” he laughed, kicking out his legs and looking up to the sky, the clouds glowing orange from light pollution. In response, Enjolras clung tightly to Combeferre’s arm as though the man threatened to leave right this moment. Feuilly shared a grin with Ferre who rolled his eyes, assuring Enjolras in a patronising tone that he wouldn’t be going anywhere any time soon.

“Too broke, for a start.”

When Feuilly moved back inside, things had begun to wind down. Quite a few people had already left, although he could hear Bahorel’s laughter filtering through from the kitchen. He found Courfeyrac and Jehan sitting on one of the sofas, holding a laptop which bore a sticky label on the back that read PROPERTY OF M PONTMERCY PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH. They were curled up close in the glow of the laptop screen, Jehan’s head resting on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. Jehan held out a sleepy hand towards him.

“Courfeyrac is showing me kitten videos on YouTube,” he whispered, drawing Feuilly to the sofa. Sure enough, on screen was a cat glaring at a printer in someone’s study. As the paper moved into the output tray, the cat bashed it angrily and Feuilly found himself chuckling. Courfeyrac hit the pause button, laughing brightly.

“And that’s pretty much what Enjolras did to the office printer last week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COMBEFERRE IS HOME!!! *throws party* oh wait...


	22. Years Later We'll Remember the Bath Tub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courf's new job is slowly killing him, and change is on the horizon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Yes, it is I! In the words of Gabe Goodman, "I'm alive"
> 
> There isn't anything to tag here :)

_September_

Courfeyrac was stressed, there was no two ways about it. He loved his job, he really did, but leaving the house at six in the morning only to come home at eight o’clock at night was beginning to wear him thin. This was his dream job; he’d been working towards this his whole life, and while he had known it was going to be hard work, the last month or so had been especially tough. 

There was just so much to remember. Just when it seemed like he was finding his feet and beginning to get somewhere, the game changed. He’d be given a whole new case to deal with and that sensation of being completely out of his depth would start all over again.

These days it felt as though it was permanently Monday. Like Groundhog Day, his alarm was constantly wrenching him from sleep; he would pull on his suit, grab his suitcase and head on out to the Tube station. He’d pick up a coffee and a croissant on his way into the office – he couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d had a bowl of cereal at home – and then maybe, at around one o’clock, he would nip down the road to pick up a sandwich, or usually two sandwiches because otherwise there was a serious danger of Enjolras starving to death. 

The cleaners arrived at about 5:30pm, politely requesting access to the bin under his desk, nodding hello as they worked round him. Bahorel, as the newest intern with the least amount of responsibility, usually called it a night about an hour later, clapping Enjolras on the shoulder and saying that he’d see him at home, trying to tempt the man away from his desk with promises of dinner. Hell, Courfeyrac would absolutely trade case notes for a plate of whatever it was Bahorel was cooking every evening; the man had all sorts of recipes from his mother.

But there was always one more thing; _I’ll just get to this point, I’ll just finish this paragraph, I’ll just proof-read this contact, I’ll just print out these sources…_

That evening, Courfeyrac didn’t know what day it was, much less what time it was, when he finally fell through his own front door. There had been a signal failure on the Northern Line which somehow meant the Jubilee had long delays. In the end he’d given up and got on a bus, dozing on the back seat, head resting against his briefcase and dreaming about the good old days when he’d had the time for such luxuries as parties and boyfriends, girlfriends, lovers, casual sex and sleep.

As he peeled the shoes off his feet, Jehan tutted at him from where he was sitting upside down on the couch reading a book, and Courfeyrac swallowed because no one should look that beautiful in neon pink leg warmers and cyber blue leggings. The boy rolled gracefully so that he was the right way up, looking Courfeyrac up and down whilst shaking his head.

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in,“ he drawled, doing his best 1940s Hollywood bar maid impression. Courfeyrac rewarded him with a tired smile.

“Is it Friday yet?” he whimpered. Jehan scrunched up his mouth in sympathy, shaking his head, making Courfeyrac whine because surely it must be Friday!

Jehan hopped off the sofa, taking Courfeyrac’s hand and dragging him towards the bathroom.

“Come on darling, let’s sort you out.”

It took Courfeyrac a few moments for his brain to kick into gear and then he started to put the brakes on, because bathrooms were one of those places where one was typically alone, unless doing sexy coupley things in the shower, and as much as his massive huge solar-flare-sized crush on Jehan had only increased over the past few months, he’d obviously missed a step because last he knew they had still been on a strictly formal “you and I use the bathroom at separate times” basis.

“Whoah, Jehan, slow down,” he protested. “What are you doing?”

Jehan rolled his eyes, letting out a slow, put-upon sigh, as though Courfeyrac was being particularly troublesome.

“Running you a bath,” he replied, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. And to Jehan it probably was. Courfeyrac knew all about Jehan’s obsession with baths, knew vaguely that he and Feuilly had shared more than one in a platonic (and possibly not-so-platonic) manner. In fact, if one hazy round of truth-or-dare was to be believed, Feuilly was a bath convert because of Jehan. So maybe a Jehan bath wasn’t such a bad idea.

The thing was, Courfeyrac quite liked baths. He didn’t spend hours and hours in there or anything, but he enjoyed soaking in hot water and reading a book, or more often these days, reading Jehan’s handwriting on the tiles. The scribbles gave fascinating glimpses into his friend’s mind; little snippets that Courfeyrac found captivating, especially when he recognised an influence or a scene from some little interaction that he had been privy to.

“Jehan, I know how to run my own baths,” he grumbled half-heartedly, doing it more for show than anything. He got a sceptical frown in response.

“Don’t think I don’t know about that bottle of radox you have stashed under the sink,” Jehan’s voice was crisp with disapproval, and Courfeyrac was strongly reminded of the first time his mother had found a few magazines stashed under his mattress, as though buying £1 bottles of bubble bath was something to be ashamed of.

Jehan was reaching for his shelf; the hallowed shelf – the shelf of things that Absolutely Must Not Be Touched By Anyone Other Than Jehan on Pain of Death. It made Courfeyrac smile. This was how Jehan told his friends he loved them. Some people said it with flowers and chocolates; Jehan said it with really expensive bath oils.

The mechanics of taking a bath with Jehan was something that woke Courfeyrac out of his daze. How were they going to do this? Jehan didn’t seem to be in any particular rush to leave the room now that the oils and things had been added to the water flowing hot from the tap, so he guessed Jehan intended to join him; knew that the tub could take both Feuilly and Jehan, and he was shorter than Feuilly. 

The bathroom mirror was steaming up and the water was nearly two inches from the overflow pipe which would be about right for climbing into, and Jehan was just smiling to himself, perfectly relaxed and happy and at peace with the world.

“Bath looks great, Jehan,” Courf murmured appreciatively, because it was true, but he also hoped it would spur his friend into action.

“Darling,” Jehan smirked at him, as if he could read Courfeyrac’s mind, “I’ll go if you want me to, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” His smile dropped to something kinder then, softer, and Courf’s heart clenched a little harder in his chest. “But when I said I’d run you a bath, I was more thinking I’d join you. If you like?”

Courfeyrac was croaking out an agreement before his brain fully caught up with what was being said. But then Jehan’s answering smile was so open and full of pleasure, as though part of him had expected Courfeyrac to refuse. He moved to lift his t-shirt off his shoulders, and then bent down to peel off his leggings, at which point Courf suppressed a slight squeak and turned away, because from the glimpse he’d received Jehan wasn’t wearing any underwear.

“Courf?” Jehan enquired politely from behind Courfeyrac’s shoulder. Courf couldn’t believe he was blushing. He’d been on the rugby team at an all-boy’s school; he’d shared more than one communal shower, this really shouldn’t be any different. At all. Not a little bit. “Are you ok?”

“Fine,” Courf coughed, lying through his teeth. “Sorry, I didn’t want… didn’t want you to think… just wanted to give you some privacy.” 

Jehan laughed lightly before asking Courfeyrac if he was definitely ok with this.

“Feuilly and I share baths all the time,” he intoned lightly, voice encouraging. “but if you don’t want to…”

Courfeyrac quickly cut in that he did want to, and showed good faith by starting to strip off himself, wondering if he’d somehow fallen asleep at his desk and this was all some fevered hallucination; was he really about to climb into a bath with Jean Prouvaire? He paused as he reached his boxers, tempted to leave them on.

“It’s just the human body, Courfeyrac, don’t be precious,” Jehan sniffed dismissively. “Besides, I’ve seen you naked lots of times.” 

Courf really did turn round, then, opening his mouth to enquire when exactly these ‘lots of times’ were before snapping his mouth shut. Jehan probably had a fair point. He wasn’t ashamed of his body by any means, and while he never went around with the intention of forcing his nudity upon anyone, chances were that all of his friends had stumbled upon him in his birthday suit at some point. 

All the same, he turned his back once more to peel off his boxers, and kept his back to Jehan while he climbed gingerly into the water, impressed that Jehan had somehow got the perfect mix of hot and cold and he didn’t have to hop back out again. He heard Jehan climb into the water behind him, felt surprisingly cool hands on his shoulders pushing him forward so that when Courfeyrac sat down, it wasn’t actually on Jehan. 

OK, Courfeyrac definitely didn’t whimper when he sat down in the water, the heady scents of essential oil and bubble bath mixing with the atmosphere, making the room smell heavenly. Behind him, he heard the water stir, droplets of water splashing against the tile, and then a sponge was being rubbed between his shoulder blades in firm sweeps.

It was entirely possible that he groaned loudly, sinking forward, pressing his chest to his knees as the sponge did its work. Then the sponge was set aside and holy fuck… that felt so good. Jehan was working one of the knots in Courfeyrac’s shoulder, fingers digging fiercely into the deep tissue. He was aware of Jehan muttering something as he manipulated the shoulder, moving from knot to knot and Courfeyrac was completely blissed out.

“You’re my favourite,” he mumbled, almost drunk on the giddy sensation. “I want to marry your hands.” Jehan giggled, pressing a chaste kiss to Courfeyrac’s neck.

Courfeyrac thought about that kiss that night as he sank into bed, hot and woozy from the bath, shoulders now free of knots and feeling amazing. He was almost certain that was the first time Jehan had kissed him in friendship since he’d moved in.

+

_November_

They were only supposed to be nipping in and out so that Feuilly could change his clothes. Ten minutes, Feuilly had promised; let him wash the day off quickly, and swap out his overalls for some jeans and a sweater, and then they could hit the pub and Bahorel could tell him all about the latest gossip in the office.

But the white envelope on the side had caught his attention and he knew what it was, just by the crest, and honest to god his heart stopped right then and there.

Feuilly stared at the envelope as though terrified to approach it in case it bit him. Bahorel laughed and elbowed him, asked him what the fuck he was playing at, staring at the envelope as though it was an ex-girlfriend.

“Do you remember?” Feuilly croaked, forcing his voice to work. Long ago, back before London and universities, Chiswick House and Wales; right back when two teenage boys had been forced to dress up as Father Christmas and his elf for a garden centre’s Christmas display. 

“Do you remember telling me I should be head gardener at Buckingham Palace one day?”

Bahorel’s eyes went wide, sobering instantly, and he swallowed, eyes darting over to the envelope, fixing on the crest because holy fuck. Holy fucking lord above. Of course he remembered. But surely Feuilly couldn’t be serious…

Feuilly hadn’t told anyone; hadn’t dare breathe a word of it because he didn’t quite believe it himself. He had never expected to be approached, not again, and especially not by the company responsible for the Royal Gardens, of all places. But the word was out that he was back in the market for a job, recovered from his accident and looking to get back into it, and it just so happened that they were looking for a part-time senior assistant.

He knew that property clearance wasn’t really what he wanted. Yes, it was outdoor work, and he got the chance to see abused, abandoned green spaces transform into cleared blank canvases, but there was limited opportunity to translate those blank canvases into something beautiful. Sometimes he missed the nurseries from his first job at the garden centre, or back at Chiswick House; gently coaxing seedlings out of the ground. He wanted to watch things grow and flourish under his care.

So Feuilly had filled out the paperwork and sent it off, not imagining anything would come of it because why would it? Nothing ever fell out of the sky but rain. Yet the envelope was in his hands, with the world tipping violently on its axis under his very feet.

It could be a rejection. It was probably a polite “thanks but no thanks” as the powers-that-be came to their senses and realised they’d got the wrong person. 

“You’re joking,” Bahorel spluttered. “You’re actually joking, right?” He didn’t sound at all sure and his face was an absolute picture of shock and awe.

Feuilly continued to stare down at the envelope in his hands, shaking his head because no, he wasn’t joking. Although it wasn’t Buckingham Palace. Only Kensington Palace. Only. 

In a moment the seal was broken and the envelope had given up its contents, the thick paper unfurled and Feuilly read through it in silence. Bahorel watched him, chewing his lip and trying to give the man a chance to read it, to translate it, but it was so hard; Feuilly deserved this so much and Bahorel desperately wanted to know, _needed_ to know.

“I got it.”

Bahorel snapped; he felt something inside him go ping and he couldn’t help but shout because he had no fucking clue what was going on. His best friend was talking cryptically about Buckingham Palace and Bahorel needed a few more words from his best mate to explain just what the hell was going on.

“Got what?! Fuck’s sake Feuilly GOT WHAT?!”

Feuilly was laughing, the tension in the room broken and Bahorel picked him up, almost shaking him, demanding that Feuilly stop being an enigmatic little shit and just spit it out. So Feuilly told him, told him everything; about how he’d been sought out for one of the most prestigious positions in the country; that it didn’t get much better than this.

“It’s part time,” he laughed, trying to draw breath, his head spinning. “It means I’ll be able to contract myself out so I can be brought in to advise on big conservation works in public spaces.”

He’d always wanted to do that. There were so many old and abandoned places in London that didn’t just need clearing but preserving. Private companies bought them up and brought people into advise on conservation, restoration and preservation. It was great work but unpredictable, and Feuilly would need something steady in the background while he pursued it. Kensington Palace was the perfect answer.

“Oh man,” and suddenly Bahorel was laughing, bellowing hard, almost doubled over as he clapped Feuilly on the back. “Enjolras is gonna hate you.”

Feuilly spluttered into laughter because he hadn’t even thought of that. Enjolras was no monarchist, that was for sure. He glared every time their travels took them anywhere near Green Park or St James’s Park. Feuilly rolled his eyes, shoving Bahorel playfully, quite certain that Enjolras would be nothing but delighted for him.

“Right,” Bahorel grinned, “let’s get you down the pub. Celebratory drinks I think”.

+

They were joined by the whole crowd, everyone making an effort to turn out and clap Feuilly on the back once his good news spread. Enjolras rolled his eyes in good humour at the ribbing he got from Bahorel and Courfeyrac, before telling Feuilly in a very serious voice that it was excellent they finally had someone on the inside. Feuilly froze, momentarily believing Enjolras to be serious, before he cottoned on to the mischievous twinkle in Enjolras’s eye and then everyone fell about laughing once more. 

Bahorel watched Feuilly, unable to take his eyes off him. His best friend was glowing. He looked healthy, stood tall, was surrounded by wonderful friends and was about to embark on his dream job. Bahorel wondered if he was getting sappy in his old age or had just had too much to drink because watching Feuilly made him feel unbelievably warm and content inside.

A very small voice in the back of his head wondered if it would be a good idea to have another drink and see if, perhaps, Feuilly might be open to being kissed. But most of him was feeling sensible, recognising that it was him who had walked away last time for all the right reasons, so there was no excuse for throwing himself back in for the wrong ones. Celebratory sex was totally a thing, but Bahorel hadn’t finished his probation at work yet, and if Feuilly had wanted things to start back up again, then surely the guy would have said something when Bahorel passed his degree.

Besides, he was then distracted by the conversation between Joly and Feuilly about commuting. Getting across London every day was a nightmare. An expensive nightmare, at that. Kensington Palace would be an awkward location to get too, right in the centre of town, and meant longer days. 

Bahorel’s mind began to work in an entirely different direction. He wondered how upset Enjolras would be if he moved out.

+

_December_

A Christmas party had seemed like a good idea at the time. 

The Firm’s offices shut over the Christmas period so from Christmas Eve to 2nd January, neither Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Bahorel nor Marius had anywhere else to be. Combeferre, of course, was on school holidays, having successfully negotiated the first term at his new school, grateful to put his marking and planning down for a bit. Joly was still working all hours at the hospital, and he was unfortunate enough to be doing a stint in A&E over the Christmas period including Christmas Day, which he had taken in good humour, saying that someone had to do it.

Jehan had been busy flogging books to all the people who usually wouldn’t come within spitting distance of a book shop except in December when some distant relative was proving particularly difficult and they couldn’t really go with bath salts again. 

So everyone was tired and exhausted and excited about Christmas, and someone had pointed out that they hadn’t really had a decent Christmas party in years which caused something of an outcry, and before anyone knew what was happening, there was a party being planned, with Courfeyrac, Feuilly and Jehan as the gracious hosts.

They’d decided to hold it in the hazy lull between Christmas and New Year, on a night when Joly wasn’t on rotation and when Jehan and Courfeyrac would be back from visiting their respective folks, Bahorel and Feuilly would be back from Bahorel’s mum’s, and Enjolras and Combeferre would be back from visiting Ferre’s father in Surrey.

Jehan had been allowed to go to town with the tinsel and glitter, Bahorel’s eyes popping out of his head as he came through the door. Bing Crosby was warbling about white Christmases, the record going round and round on Jehan’s player, fairy lights twinkling softly in the living room. Bahorel added his presents to the stash under the tree, grinning as Feuilly passed him a drink from the kitchen.

Others arrived, the place filling up with laughter and good cheer, and Bahorel found himself chatting with Bossuet and Marius about a documentary they’d all seen involving people who had taken Wizzard’s advice about it being Christmas every day to heart. Marius’s eyes were as big as saucers as Joly reiterated just how much one man spent on turkey and crackers in a year, before sniffing at the health implications of eating the same meal every day.

It was warm, it was comfortable; it felt like the good old days.

Feuilly found him later on in the evening, when Courfeyrac and Combeferre were engaged in a Guitar Hero battle. 

“Who put up mistletoe?” Bahorel nodded to where it hung over the door to the living room, and Feuilly laughed.

“It was Jehan, actually,” Feuilly smiled, eyes slightly glassy with drink. Bahorel couldn’t tear his eyes away from Feuilly, who was relaxed and leaning up against the counter, watching their friends.

“Move in with me,” Bahorel blurted out, almost immediately feeling horrified because he really hadn’t meant to say that. He’d been saving it, keeping it inside, waiting for the right moment. And what was worse, the words in his ears didn’t half sound like he was asking Feuilly to marry him, and poor Bahorel almost clamped his hand over his mouth. Feuilly looked up at him, still smiling but with a wrinkled brow.

“What?”

“I, uh, have been looking at new places to live. Can’t really live AND work with Enjolras. Cabin fever is going to set in sometime…not like we can talk about how each other’s days have been,” he coughed, trying to appear casual. Feuilly chuckled, taking another sip from his drink.

“So, I, uh, found this place. In East Acton, just round the corner from the Tube station. Quite spacious because it needs some work doing to it. Wondered if you wanted to make use of the second bedroom?”

Bahorel’s heart was hammering so loudly in his chest, he was sure Feuilly could hear it above the music. He desperately wanted Feuilly to say yes.

Feuilly was torn. On the one hand, it sounded great. He and Bahorel would see a lot more of each other, and he couldn’t actually believe that they’d been friends since they were seventeen but had never actually lived together. But on the other, he loved his place with Jehan and Courfeyrac.

“Can I think about it?” he asked, and was relieved to see Bahorel’s face clear, the doubt and worry on his forehead smoothing out as he nodded vehemently. Of course, Feuilly could think about it. 

+

Courfeyrac retired to the sofa, pretending to pout because Combeferre had beaten him so completely at Guitar Hero, which was just rude because it was Christmas. Jehan sank down next to him on the sofa, eyes sparkling wickedly and Courfeyrac felt his throat go dry.

“I thought you played very well,” Jehan smiled, eyes bright. Courfeyrac almost squirmed under that gaze; Jehan always had a way of staring right at you, as though with x-ray eyes. 

Somehow, as the night progressed, Jehan seemed to end up next to him a fair bit. Courfeyrac circulated, as he always did; chatting with Enjolras and laughing with Joly. Someone had pulled out the 1984 version of Trivial Pursuit. Courfeyrac had boasted that Combeferre could probably answer every single question correctly and Marius, poor Marius, had gasped that surely that wasn’t possible.

Which, of course, led to Bossuet reading out the questions, Combeferre balanced on one of the breakfast bar chairs, Marius on the other, answering question after question. For every one Ferre got right, Marius had to take a shot. Marius was already looking distinctly green, and Enjolras was remarking out loud about a question limit before they needed to have Pontmercy’s stomach pumped. Courfeyrac, laughing at the scene before him, found Jehan beside him, bumping his shoulder, and he smiled, warm with the casual contact.

Then later, when the night started to calm down a bit, the music a bit quieter and everyone curling up on chairs and cushions while Feuilly chose a movie, Courfeyrac found Jehan practically in his lap, purring like a cat as Courfeyrac petted his hair. Jehan was warm beneath his fingers as the room settled around him. He looked over to where Feuilly was sitting at Bahorel’s feet, leaning against the man’s legs. Those two dark horses had been whispering together earlier. Subtle as sledge-hammers, the pair of them. Courf’s drink-addled mind wondered if Bahorel and Feuilly would ever get their shit together properly. 

As the movie progressed, Jehan seemed to be moving more and more, as though annexing Courfeyrac to become part of the Prouvaire empire. Courf didn’t mind, it was nice to hold Jehan so close, to breathe him in and feel the boy breathe in turn. But then Jehan was burrowing into his chest, hot breath against his neck and hands lightly skipping over his shirt, and Courfeyrac’s attention was suddenly very much on the little nymph in his lap.

The movie droned on in the background. Combeferre, sitting on the other side of Courfeyrac, was already asleep. Courfeyrac held his breath as nimble fingers slid up his torso and brushed against his nipples, and he tried to control his exhale as he closed his eyes because _good fucking god_ that felt good.

Blood was definitely rushing south as he felt Jehan nip at his neck, and Courfeyrac’s mind was suddenly filled with the idea of being covered by Jehan’s bite marks. It was a very attractive thought indeed; Jehan would _ruin_ him.

But what the hell was Jehan thinking?! There was a time when Jehan had held him firmly at arm’s length, although there had been a definite thawing of relations in the last two years or so; but Jehan had never showed any interest or given any sign that he might be interested in Courfeyrac, until now. 

A careful twist of his nipple brought him back out of his head to the matter at hand, and any second now Jehan was going to realise Courfeyrac was hard, so he decided to take action. Careful not to jog the sleeping Ferre beside him, he slowly moved to cover Jehan’s roving hands with his own. They stilled immediately, and Courf felt Jehan freeze completely. He wished he wasn’t in a dark room full of his friends so that he could explain that he was absolutely fine with all this contact, he really really was. So he leaned forward, intending to mutter into Jehan’s ear. Instead, Jehan found his mouth.

It felt as though a spotlight had been lit inside his brain. Jehan kissed firmly, insistently, and Courfeyrac felt ridiculous because all he could think about was the firm thumbs pressed against his chest where Jehan was leaning against him. Jehan tasted of Babycham and cigarettes and Courfeyrac wanted more.

He was vaguely aware of muttering around him, and then an elbow in his shin.

“Get a room!” a low, gruff bark that probably came from Bahorel, reminding Courfeyrac that, right, yeah, he was in a room full of his friends, having an epiphany and a meltdown because, strike him dead, he never wanted to kiss anyone else ever again.

He obligingly got up, taking Jehan with him, his feet leading him down the corridor to his bedroom. He didn’t even get the lights on before Jehan was practically climbing him like a tree, biting down on his lip, lifting at Courfeyrac’s t-shirt, everything a blur of motion as they tumbled into bed together. 

Fuck, Jehan was beautiful. Courfeyrac drank the sight of him in, and his chest ached because he wanted to keep this, just wrap up this moment for ever and put it in a jam jar and stick it on a shelf somewhere for special occasions. He reached out to press a hand to Jehan’s cheek, the boy turning his head so he could bite down on Courf’s thumb, sending a bolt of lust straight through him.

“Fuck, I want you. Want you so bad,” he groaned, pulling Jehan to him, wanting to consume him completely, and be consumed. Jehan was grinning at him, pushing him down, climbing on top of him and attacking Courfeyrac’s throat, all the way down his jaw line, sinking his teeth into the corded muscle by his collar bone.

He could feel Jehan was rock hard through his skinny jeans, hips rolling against him and Courf was still trying to remember how to breathe because his brain wasn’t in any fit state for anything right now, barely able to cope with the fact that Jean Prouvaire was in his bed.

“Jehan,” he croaked. There was something he needed to say, something that was important, that he needed Jehan to understand before they did this.

“Jehan!”

The boy hummed an acknowledgement, still on top of Courfeyrac, knotting his fists in Courf’s hair and continuing to kiss and bite him by turn.

“Wait, Jehan, I need… hang on a sec,” Courfeyrac was relieved when Jehan obediently sat back, stopping what he was doing to look down at him. Courf tried to pull himself up a little so he could look at Jehan properly, marvelling at his kiss-red lips, at how beautifully his skin glowed, hair mussed up and adorable. Courf ached with the sight of it all. They sat like that for a moment, staring hungrily, before Jehan leant forward again, snaking his arms around Courfeyrac and kissing him firmly, and Courf just wanted to melt into him, just die in that kiss and be done with it.

“Jehan, this is important,” Courfeyrac force himself to stop, pulling back and untangling Jehan’s arms from around his neck. He held Jehan’s wrists gently and firmly because he needed this beautiful boy in his bed to understand.

“I don’t want to do this with you as part of a drunken fumble at a Christmas party. I want you. I want to… to… take you on dates. Hang off your arm and blush in public when you kiss my cheek on the bus. I want to smile at your text messages and for people to ask me why I’m smiling and then I can tell them my _boyfriend_ just texted me and it’ll be something stupid like “can you pick up some parmesan” but we’ll both know what it really means. I want you wrapped inside my life, Jean Prouvaire.”

Jehan stared back at him, mouth open slightly in the wake of Courf’s declaration. There was a terrible silence and it was long enough for Courfeyrac to start to panic, a vague sense of nausea and terror settling in his gut, but he wouldn’t take the words back, not for anything in the world.

“Can you,” Jehan closed his eyes, breathing out slowly. “Can you tell me all that again when I’m sober?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok first things are first - usual apologies for me just leaving this fic... I have no excuses. I just fail at life. Thank you for sticking with me. Thank you to my old readers for their patience. Thank you to my new readers who have left kudos and lovely comments, gently reminding me that this fic is something I love and that deserves an actual ending.
> 
> Secondly, I am aware that not everyone knows what Babycham is.... so here's the [advert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u7RFYEe42VI&feature=youtu.be)
> 
> The chapter title is from "Love in a Bath Tub" by Sujata Bhatt - and I dedicate it to Claire :-p
> 
> All the love, respect, flowers, chocolate (and one promised puppy) to Sarah for beta-ing for me :)
> 
> X


	23. I Still Don't Know What I Was Waiting For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "After months of pining and dancing around each other, Jehan and Courfeyrac had fallen into a passionate love affair that should not under any circumstances be likened to Romeo and Juliet"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, so I had a burst of inspiration and finally got around to finishing this chapter which has been sitting in an almost-finished state for an embarrassing amount of time. I also, some of you may have noticed, worked out how to add it to its proper place in the L&T verse. 
> 
> I've pretty much given up apologising for my total inability to post with any regularity - just trust me when I say that I WILL finish this fic if it kills me because I love these guys too much not to give them the resolution they deserve. And we're so close!
> 
> So, thank you for still being with me.  
> There's the usual amount of angst and pining (and Claire said something about "hardcore pillow grabbing) but otherwise nothing that needs tagging, I don't think (though you're always welcome to ask me to add something if you feel I should)

_January_

Bahorel pulled out a length of duck-patterned gaffa tape before biting it off with his teeth and applying it to the top of yet another box full of his stuff. Moving house was shit and he was determined this would be the last time for at least a hundred years. Across from him sat Feuilly, cross-legged on the floor, casually chucking CDs into a crate.

“How are the lovebirds?” Bahorel grinned, ripping off another strip and applying it liberally. Feuilly groaned.

“Sickening,” he growled, throwing the last of the CDs into the crate and holding his arm out for the gaffa tape.

Since Courfeyrac’s confession at Christmas there had been something of an extreme change in the household dynamics. After months of pining and dancing around each other, Jehan and Courfeyrac had fallen into a passionate love affair that should not under any circumstances be likened to Romeo and Juliet – and certainly not in Jehan’s hearing.

But it couldn’t be denied, they were both incredibly happy; two little balls of sunshine radiant in each other’s company. It was, as Feuilly put it, absolutely sickening. Their friends couldn’t be happier for them.

There were flowers and chocolates and terrible poetry. Certainly Courf had gone to extreme lengths to ensure the bouquets he bought spoke exactly the language he wished to convey, knowing how important it was to Jehan, and the lines spilling round the walls of the bathroom reflected his incredible success. 

Feuilly was glad for his long working hours so he could leave the happy couple to it. He was happy for them, he really was; and they weren’t _trying_ to be obnoxious. They didn’t fuck in the living room, and everyone respected Joly’s rule about no sex in kitchens. Courfeyrac’s room was across the hall from Feuilly’s so it wasn’t as if they shared a wall. But that didn’t change the fact that they were incredibly loud, and there was only so much rhythmic banging and cries in the throes of passion that Feuilly could take.

Bahorel said it was because Feuilly wasn’t getting any. Feuilly’s response was to throw the roll of gaffa tape at Bahorel’s head.

Hiding out at Bahorel’s wasn’t so bad. At least this way they might actually get packed up in time for moving day. Besides, Feuilly figured he owed Bahorel a few moving favours. It was decidedly peaceful, filling boxes and taping them up, talking about nothing because it was easy.

“You told them you’re moving out yet?” Bahorel leaned over to grab another empty box, eyeing up his bookshelf dubiously.

From the look on Feuilly’s face he knew the answer, and this time it was him who got to chuck the gaffa tape at his foolish friend’s head. Was he just going to move out in three weeks’ time and hope they didn’t notice?

“They’re going to take it the wrong way,” Feuilly sighed. “They’ll think it’s because of them getting together, and I don’t want to do that to them.”

It was unfortunate timing, that was true. But Bahorel didn’t see why Feuilly had to frame his life around other people all the time.

“Just put your big girl pants on and tell them,” he shrugged. “Or I could tell them?”

It was meant to be a helpful suggestion, not a threat, but Feuilly frowned, shaking his head.

“No, I’ll do it.” He sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes. “I just have to find the right time.”

+

February was a brutal month. Winter always seemed to go through its death throes, sinking its claws into freezing temperatures, cluttering up the weeks with ice, frost and snow. London wasn’t equipped to deal with snow; the buses were cancelled and the tube was delayed and the schools were closed, all over a few inches of white wet stuff.

Bahorel was working from home after receiving a call from the office that the generator in the basement had broken so the office was technically below the legal temperature. Ordinarily an unexpected snow day would mean a day in bed, or maybe playing Mario Kart. But he did have some notes that needed preparing for Court on Thursday… Bahorel groaned because when the hell had he become such a miserable grown-up?

At ten o’clock he puttered into the kitchen to make some coffee which was when he spotted Feuilly’s lunch, coffee flask and gloves on the counter. Bahorel glanced out of the kitchen window, confirming his suspicions that it was, indeed, still snowing. His ridiculous flatmate had gone to work without his lunch and gloves and without coffee. Unbelievable.

It took Bahorel five minutes to pull on a few layers and dig out his own hat and scarf. His boots gripped to the pavement well enough, snow crunching beneath his feet as he made his way to the tube station, dragon breath ghosting in the freezing air.

The whirls of snowflakes caught in his hair and stung his cheeks. The streets were still, cars shrouded in their blankets. It seemed like everyone else was still hiding under their duvets. When he reached the main road, Bahorel could see where the gritters had been through, the snow turned to brown sludge, gathered at the curb. It was harder to walk here, snow compacted down to ice on the untreated pavements, and every so often one of the red buses would go past, wheels splashing in the melted snow.

It wasn’t a long journey on the tube which was, of course, half the reason Feuilly had agreed to move into the second bedroom in the first place. And then it was a short walk through the park, everything fresh and clear and quiet in the snow. Bahorel growled to himself; Feuilly’s hands must be red raw in this cold. It would be just his luck to get chilblains or worse. Fucking idiot. And he knew Feuilly hated the coffee machine in the staffroom which was the whole reason he had a flask in the first place.

There was a certain gate they had to present themselves to – Bahorel had jokingly named it the Tradesman’s Entrance, which had earned him a cushion to the face – and a member of staff met him there.

“Is Feuilly around? I’m his flatmate and I think he might want his lunch.” The staff member smiled and let him through, taking him to one of the greenhouses where Feuilly was bent over some seedling pots.

“Did you leave your brain in bed, or what?” Bahorel barked in lieu of a greeting, pleased by the startled look on Feuilly’s face. He was less pleased about the fact that Feuilly wasn’t even wearing a scarf – did the guy not have an ounce of sense!

“Oh if that’s my coffee I will kiss you,” Feuilly groaned, hungry eyes on the flask in Bahorel’s hands. Bahorel coolly pretended that he hadn’t heard him, and certainly didn’t acknowledge the hairs up on the back of his neck. Feuilly’s hands were little blocks of ice as they closed round the flask, swiftly unscrewing the lid and pouring the hot, black contents into the cup. The sound he made as he took a sip was almost pornographic.

“You are a lifesaver,” Feuilly gasped when he resurfaced. Bahorel rolled his eyes, because it was the only thing he could do.

“Have some gloves,” Bahorel plucked them from his pocket, shoving them in Feuilly’s direction, and then took the scarf wrapped round his own neck and looped it over Feuilly’s head.

“But, what’ll you do?” Feuilly protested. Bahorel shrugged. Feuilly’s cheeks were pink from the hot coffee, the large rainbow scarf Jehan had knitted him for Christmas clashing brilliantly with the rust red of Feuilly’s hair. 

Through the glass behind him, the snow had finally stopped, leaving just a dazzling and beautiful white, but Bahorel didn’t see any of it, staring at the man in front of him. 

“I’ll be fine. It’s five minutes to the tube and I’ll be back in our toasty warm flat with actual central heating before you know it.” Feuilly snorted and elbowed him again, and Bahorel found himself laughing.

“I’ll see you later,” Bahorel grinned, stepping back, and when had he walked into Feuilly’s space? He couldn’t remember. Feuilly nodded, pouring himself another coffee.

“Make sure dinner is ready on the table when I get home,” he called out cheekily, which of course got the “fuck off!” response it deserved. Bahorel left the quiet of the green house and stepped back out into the snow.

Feuilly watched Bahorel’s retreating figure as he walked towards the exit. He snuggled into the warm scarf and took a deep breath, enjoying how Bahorel’s warm scent enveloped him, hands still wrapped tightly around the flask mug. 

+

“Hey, Courfeyrac and Jehan have a new flatmate,” Feuilly stirred the pasta sauce on the hob as Bahorel stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped up in a towel and dripping water everywhere on his way back to his bedroom.

“That’s good news,” he called down the hallway. “Anyone we know?”

“Some friend of Courfeyrac’s,” he replied, buzzer going off to say the pasta was ready to be drained.

“Courfeyrac has other friends?” Bahorel stuck his head round the door of the kitchen, and Feuilly ignored how droplets of water clung to Bahorel’s hair.

“Shut up, and eat your dinner before it gets cold,” he scolded, staring purposefully at the sauce as though it was all the pasta’s fault.

+

“Hold on to your hats, because boy do I have some gossip for you!” 

Bahorel swooped into the flat, door rattling behind him. It was one of Feuilly’s rare days off and he was enjoying sitting on the couch and catching up with some reading.

Peace thoroughly shattered, Feuilly sighed, closing the book and giving the over-grown child in front of him his full attention.

“You will never ever guess who I saw having a coffee on Wardour Street,” Bahorel threw himself down on the adjacent sofa, eyes bright with mischief.

“No, you’re right. Eight million people in London, I do not have time to list them all,” Feuilly deadpanned, leaning back and folding his arms. Bahorel pouted, disappointed at his flatmate’s refusal to play along.

“Enjolras!” Bahorel barked, announcing it as though having discovered the true meaning of life. Feuilly raised one critical eyebrow at him.

“That’s your hot gossip? Enjolras in ‘drinking coffee’ shocker – I can see the headlines now…”

“No, no, no,” Bahorel interrupted him, waving his arms around and sighing as though Feuilly was being deliberately difficult. “Enjolras was with _someone else_.”

Feuilly opened and then closed his mouth because he still didn’t see what that had to do with anything.

“And! That someone else was holding Enjolras’s hand and Enjolras was letting him”

Having a coffee in Soho with someone else and letting that someone else hold your hand; damning evidence indeed.

“You know, when Courf finds out you’re going to owe him £50, if I recall the terms of your bet correctly,” Feuilly smirked, watching the wind blow completely out of Bahorel’s sails.

“That bastard,” Bahorel suddenly stood up and hurried out of the room, and Feuilly heard the front door bang. He smiled fondly to himself; serve the guy right for being so gross as to bet on someone else’s romantic relationships.

+

_April_

The Art classes were Bahorel’s idea. Feuilly was quite impressed, truth be told. Bahorel had certainly done his research and hadn’t just settled for the first class in the local area. The class was multi-skill with a teacher who had spent some time abroad teaching in Japan, and with an interest in the artistic movements that Feuilly particularly favoured.

“I just think that we should do something, you know, as flatmates,” Bahorel was frowning, and really Feuilly wanted to laugh because he’d been on board with the idea at the words “hey so I found this art class…” but hey, why interrupt the man in the middle of a good speech?

“I know I’m always working late and you have all sorts of interesting hours, and I like the pub and hanging out with our friends, but that doesn’t appear to happen as often these days, what with Combeferre teaching, and I can’t even remember the last time I saw Enjolras…”

Feuilly couldn’t help it, holding up his hands to stop Bahorel rambling on any more.

“I’d love to, I think it’s a great idea,” he grinned, rewarded by Bahorel’s frown disappearing into a surprised smile.

It became apparent pretty quickly that Bahorel couldn’t draw to save his life. The first class they took, the teacher placed a bowl of fruit in the middle and invited everyone to draw their interpretation in whichever style they preferred. Feuilly set about concentrating on the apples and grapes, working on his shading and trying to capture the way the light reflected off the polished red surface of the apple closest to him. He completely failed to notice Bahorel beside him, pencil in hand and tongue protruding slightly in concentration.

The resulting effort bore more of a resemblance to a pair of socks on a stack of marbles. Feuilly stared in horror because it never really occurred to him that perhaps Bahorel might struggle, especially as taking the class was Bahorel’s idea; although bless the teacher for not being fazed at all, and actually being quite complimentary of his experimental style. 

Feuilly dreaded the trip home; he’d had a great evening, realising just how much he’d missed his classes, and looking forward to working with other mediums like chalks and paints and pastels. Now though, as they caught the tube home, he imagined them getting through the door and Bahorel proclaiming that it had been fun, though perhaps they should give it a miss next week. 

He couldn’t have been more wrong; Bahorel was fiercely proud of his first forays into art, insisting that they frame both their pictures and hang them in their flat. When the following Wednesday arrived he was full of enthusiasm for the class, practically dragging Feuilly out the door. That evening they were looking at perspective, and Bahorel enjoyed some success, drawing train tracks going off to a horizon. Indeed, he seemed to be having a great time with his ruler, adding in lots of telegraph poles periodically as they faded into the distance. 

“We’re doing trees next week,” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together proudly. It was Friday night and he was enjoying a well-deserved pint with Courfeyrac and Jehan. Feuilly put a beer down in front of him before taking his seat.

“Nature and woodland,” he corrected, taking a sip of his own beer. Bahorel snorted, unimpressed

“That’s trees, isn’t it? Can’t have a woodland without trees!”

Both Feuilly and Jehan looked as though they were about to start a lecture on just how wrong Bahorel’s statement was – possibly with a power point presentation – and so Courfeyrac decided to cut in.

“Anyway, we’ve got some news,” he started, and even Jehan turned around in surprise, even though it was just as much his news as Courfeyrac’s. “We have a new flatmate.”

Feuilly frowned, and with good reason. This was the third New Flatmate since he’d moved out. 

“What’s this one like?” he enquired. Courf and Jehan looked at each other and shrugged because, in all honesty, they didn’t really know.

He seemed nice enough. A bit quiet, perhaps, but then that was definitely an improvement. And so far, no sign of healing crystals or carrot soup.

“Well, he’s called Brian,” Courfeyrac answered, running his hand through his hair. “Other than that, I don’t really know.”

“He’s not into poetry,” Jehan piped up, looking quite happy about that fact. 

Feuilly supposed they weren’t really looking for another life-long friend, just a decent human being who paid the rent on time. Anything else would be a bonus, and surely the saying went that it was third time lucky. This time, it would be fine.

+

It wasn’t fine. And it was just as well that half their friendship group knew the law and were able to negotiate a partial write-off and repayment scheme with the electric company after “Brian” took his leave.

“You guys are hopeless!” Bahorel exclaimed, glancing through the final paperwork to make sure nothing had been snuck in by the company that they didn’t already know about. “Next time get a deposit or something.”

It was a lesson hard learned, and one they were anxious not to repeat. Spring had given way to early summer and the opportunity for flatmates was drying out. A lot of the students had returned home, exams over, while the business crowd were thinking more about holidays than a new home. Still, Courfeyrac and Jehan dutifully continued to advertise while struggling on with the rent between them.

Work was piling on, especially on those due to reach their fully qualified status, although Bahorel still had a number of months to go in that respect. It was just as well they all worked at the same firm, otherwise it was likely the friends would never see each other. Whenever possible, Jehan would come meet Bahorel and Courf for lunch, and sometimes Enjolras too. As usual, Enjolras appeared to be carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, nose permanently in his books as though determined to memorise every footnote of English law if it actually killed him. 

At home, Feuilly took to bringing home cuttings from his various jobs. He bought a second hand camera and started photographing some of the more derelict properties and gardens he visited, contrasting them with the neat elegance of the royal palace. He took them along to his art class and enjoyed creating montages or using them as inspiration for a landscape or detail work. Soon their messy little flat was a riot of scent and colour, paint mixed with flowers of every shade, and in between were Bahorel’s rough sketches as he slowly plodded along, loving every minute.

It was Thursday morning in mid-June, after a particularly successful class on layering, and Bahorel was in an exceptionally good mood. All being well, he would be hitting the gym tonight and then maybe risotto for dinner, if he remembered to pick up some prawns on the way home…

His pleasant train of thought was interrupted by an email from Courfeyrac popping up on his screen, inviting him to a meeting in Meeting Room Three to discuss a case that Bahorel knew for a fact had resolved last week. Somewhat intrigued, he accepted the meeting, and duly got up and nonchalantly headed off to the meeting room.

The firm were rather strict on chatting and time wasting, and Courfeyrac had come up with this frankly genius plan ages ago; planning a legitimate meeting in an actual meeting room. As long as there was paper on the desk and open files apparently under discussion, they could get away with staying in there for at least twenty minutes, under the pretext of discussing case notes. They didn’t like to abuse it too much, on the basis that the boss might actually catch on to this little stunt, so this must mean serious business for Courf to call a meeting so early in the day.

“Enjolras and Combeferre have had a row,” The door of the meeting room hadn’t actually clicked shut before Courfeyrac almost exploded, leaving Bahorel standing somewhat stunned.

“How?!” Bahorel intelligently burbled in response, brain not quite working. “Those two are practically married.”

Courfeyrac sighed dramatically, flopping into a chair and opening a case file that he’d brought with him, should anyone open the door. Bahorel obligingly sat down adjacent, poising his pen as though ready to take notes.

“I don’t know, he won’t say. Ferre came by the apartment last night absolutely furious and red in the face and doing that scary calm thing he does when he wants to murder people…” Bahorel could well imagine the scene. An angry Combeferre was certainly a force to be reckoned with.

“And this morning Enjolras has this pinched look he does when he wants to break things, and when I asked him how he was he said he was fine. Fine!” Courfeyrac threw up his arms dramatically.

Ah. Yes. That other four letter word beginning with F which told you everything you needed to know; generally that Enjolras was quite the opposite of fine.

The next two weeks were utterly miserable. Between trying to study for yet another exam, and Combeferre suddenly deciding he was far too busy to come to the pub for a drink on a Friday night – and really, Bahorel would have expected a bit more from Combeferre, but then Feuilly pointed out that it was reports season so maybe it wasn’t just to do with Enjolras – then there was a final bit of drama with Jehan and Courfeyrac.

It was becoming something of a standing joke by the water cooler, the seemingly never-ending saga of finding a suitable flatmate. Having Jehan in tears, though, was no laughing matter. Poor Courf looked like he hadn’t slept in months and Bahorel was feeling terribly guilty for talking Feuilly into moving out in the first place. 

Feuilly was just as devastated when he heard about the sudden demise of the bathroom wall at the flat, insisting on getting the train straight round there. Bahorel could understand it; there was a lot of history between Jehan and Feuilly. He and Courf found themselves hovering in the kitchen trying not to talk shop while Feuilly whispered words of comfort and Jehan sniffed and hiccoughed and gratefully accepted mugs of tea.

“This year really sucks,” Courfeyrac grumbled. “If this is what being an adult is going to be like, you can fucking keep it.”

Bahorel agreed.

+

The year continued to suck right the way through the summer. It rained continuously, so there was no danger of hosting any barbecues or house parties. Everyone was too busy and too broke to afford to go anywhere on holiday. In the second week of August, Bahorel and Feuilly sent a text to everyone offering a movie night, and to their surprise everyone agreed.

Feuilly honestly couldn’t remember the last time all of them had been together. Having Joly free was a particular rarity, and the first film pretty much played to itself as the conversation flowed, everyone catching up. Combeferre and Enjolras seemed to have resolved whatever it was that had ruffled their feathers previously, although they were both rather quiet. 

“Is Patrick not with you?” Feuilly enquired politely. Truthfully, he wouldn’t be surprised to find out that they weren’t together any more. While it was generally known that Enjolras had been in a relationship for some time with this guy, so far he proved to be an elusive figure. Bahorel had never seen him in passing at the office, when it was usual for partners and boyfriends or girlfriends to either ring or turn up to meet for lunch, or just meet at the end of the day. And he’d never come down the pub for a drink on a Friday night, and had refused every invitation to birthday celebrations.

Enjolras’s face remained neutral and impassive. “Unfortunately he wasn’t able to attend,” he replied, perhaps a little stiffly. Feuilly nodded, shrugging genially and trying not to make it awkward. He passed some empty comment about it nice to see Enjolras, and then excused himself.

Jehan and Courfeyrac’s latest flatmate had also refused the invitation, although she seemed a lot calmer than the last two housemates, if a little reserved. 

It occurred to Feuilly how sad it was that their friendship group, once so tight that they practically lived in each other’s pockets, should have fragmented so much. Enjolras was sitting quietly by himself on a beanbag, texting on his phone. Combeferre was staring at him from across the room, and Feuilly was struck by the sudden urge to knock their heads together.

Bahorel was also on his phone, lounging on the sofa in a ratty old band t-shirt from a gig he and Feuilly had gone to when they were eighteen. That shirt was more hole than anything else and should have been thrown away long ago. The sleeves, especially, were little more than frayed edges clinging to the curve of Bahorel’s biceps, swirls of ink just visible as they dipped into view.

Just then, the man looked up, catching Feuilly staring. Bahorel smiled at him, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“Hey, babe!” he called out, voice cutting across the room. “Get us a beer, won’t you?”

Feuilly gave him the finger before stalking over to the fridge, ignoring Courfeyrac muttering about how he was so whipped.

+

Feuilly was lying in bed feeling decidedly pissed off with the world. He had pulled a muscle in his back lifting a tree trunk out of the way at one of his conservation jobs. He’d leant forward, being lazy and not bending his knees, when there had been a sudden sharp stabbing sensation in his back, and for a moment he’d imagined that he was falling out of a tree. His colleagues had been so freaked out by the resulting full-blown panic attack that they’d called an ambulance. By the time Bahorel had arrived in A&E, Feuilly was feeling decidedly foolish, having had it confirmed that there was nothing wrong with him that a little bed rest wouldn’t cure.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bahorel growled, leading him out of the hospital and towards a bus stop. “Of course it’s not unreasonable to freak out about your back, given your medical history.” But if anything, Bahorel being so nice about it all just made Feuilly feel worse.

That wasn’t how he and Bahorel worked. Bahorel told him to fuck off, he didn’t treat Feuilly with kid gloves or sugar-coat anything. Having him be all understanding and reasonable just made Feuilly feel prickly and grumpy and want to kick things. Now he was signed off for a week to recover and Bahorel had run him a bath – a fucking bath!

“Jehan said chamomile and sweet marjoram are good for back pain,” Bahorel rifled through the cupboard under the sink. “But as we haven’t got any of that, Matey will have to do.”

Bahorel produced the sailor-shaped bottle from the back of the cupboard and poured a generous amount into the tub. Feuilly had no idea where Bahorel, of all people, had got a bottle of Matey bubblebath from, and he was sure Jehan would have three fits if he knew. Well, Jehan wasn’t here, and damn but sinking into the hot bubbly water was just about the best feeling ever.

And as if it couldn’t get any worse, when he got out he discovered Bahorel had ordered pizza even though it was Feuilly’s turn to cook.

It was 2am and his painkillers had worn off, and Feuilly didn’t have the energy to get up to take more, so he lay in bed staring at the ceiling and contemplating his life choices.

The conclusion he reached was that he needed to get laid. He hadn’t been on a date in months, not since moving in with Bahorel. In all fairness, it had been a wild couple of months, but that was no reason to live like a hermit. There wasn’t anything holding him back from the dating scene. Although Fridays were usually spent down the pub with Bahorel, and anyone else who happened to be free. More often than not, it was just them these days; playing pool, or maybe a quick game of darts. Wednesdays was obviously their art class night, and lately Thursdays had been sort of experimental cooking evening, ever since Bahorel had found that cook book in Camden Market with all sorts of weird recipes from the 1970s and they’d decided they were going to work their way through it for shits and giggles (“hopefully more of the latter,” Bahorel and laughed, slapping Feuilly on the back).

Feuilly let his mind wander over various thoughts; not really paying attention to the images playing across his mind. Bahorel in the kitchen yelling at ratatouille; Bahorel on Saturday mornings heading out for a run in the park with his bright pink earphones. And then he thought about Bahorel playing pool, leaning over the table to take a shot, or standing back in a pose to consider his next move. It didn’t take long for the more sexually frustrated part of Feuilly’s brain to take over, imagining being bent over a pool table by Bahorel, being held down, the pool cue pressed against his back, while Bahorel kicked his legs apart and fucked him hard.

He didn’t feel that guilty, spreading his legs and reaching down to grip himself, licking his hand and then sucking on a finger to try to press inside himself without jarring his back. He knew how good Bahorel would feel, fucking into him deep, holding Feuilly in place. Feuilly’s hand sped up, pushing in a second finger and trying to suppress his whine. 

He just about avoided yelling out his best mate’s name as he came, splattering cum over his chest as he huffed through his orgasm. Then his treacherous mind called up the memory of the time Bahorel had bent down to lick up the cum on Feuilly’s chest, just because he’d seen it in a porn film and thought it looked cool. He hadn’t taken into consideration that he’d never actually tasted cum until that moment, and the face he’d pulled and been simultaneously adorable and hilarious.

Feuilly groaned, reaching for the tissues on his bedside table. He really, really needed to get laid.

+

Feuilly was just leaving work when his phone started buzzing. 

“Come to the pub, Courf wants us to meet the new flatmate,” Bahorel’s voice filtered down the line. Feuilly scoffed in response as he headed towards the tube station.

“We actually get to meet this one?”

“Oh yes. Apparently we’ll like him? Jehan had some sort of system this time round and he passed with flying colours.”

Feuilly grunted in a non-committal fashion. He’d believe it when he saw it. 

“Courf says he’s some sort of photographer and Jehan is already in love with him.”

Well that sounded a bit more promising, at the very least. Jehan was usually a sound judgement of character, so Feuilly sighed, giving in to the inevitable.

“I’ll see you there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you spotted that Wardour Street was the road running up by the Queen's Theatre then you get a metaphorical lollypop for being a clever clogs.
> 
> Claire also said I should have included a CW for Patrick (and hey I definitely won't ever be forgiven for that guy by either Claire or Sarah)
> 
> Many thanks to my two trusty compadres for their invaluable input. 
> 
> The title is from David Bowie's Changes, because what on earth ARE these two waiting for?! :-p


	24. I've Seen That Road Before, It Always Leads Me Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well,” Bahorel exclaimed, turning up the collar of his coat against the cold September night air, and then patting down his pockets looking for his cigarettes. “That was educational.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Hey that was nice and quick wasn't it.
> 
> Ok, so there's a slight warning for possessive behaviour, and we are now entering into Patrick territory here from Unhooking the Stars though at this point we're still just... warming up. So grab your kittens and chocolate please, folks :)

“Well,” Bahorel exclaimed, turning up the collar of his coat against the cold September night air, and then patting down his pockets looking for his cigarettes. “That was educational.”

Feuilly hummed in response, not really in the mood for talking. He accepted an already lit cigarette from Bahorel, and smoked it in silence as they made their way down the street towards the Tube station. 

It had all been going so well. The new guy seemed nice enough, shy at first, and perhaps a little awkward under the intense scrutiny of so many people. In the dim light of the pub, there had been a glimmer of something when he and Feuilly had shaken hands, some flash of familiarity that Feuilly couldn’t quite put his finger on. But the moment had passed, and soon everyone had settled into their conversations. 

Of course, Enjolras’s arrival had soon put paid to any theories about Jehan and Courf having found the perfect new flatmate.

“Enjolras’s ex-boyfriend, would you believe it!” Bahorel was still chortling to himself, letting out a low whistle, the smoke from his cigarette spiralling into the air. “I swear our group should be on the TV or something, although not even Eastenders could write this shit.”

They certainly did seem to have a penchant for drama. Both men, coming face to face with one another, had looked utterly horrified. The poor guy couldn’t have run out of there quick enough, and Feuilly was sure Jehan and Courf would be advertising for yet another roommate come Monday. Deciding that he couldn’t be bothered to answer, Feuilly walked on in silence.

The Tube ride back was quick enough, Bahorel playing some terrible game on his phone, obnoxiously leaving the sound on until Feuilly elbowed him hard, telling him to cut it out. Then it was a short walk back to the flat, and for a moment Feuilly thought the matter might be closed, but as they came through the door Bahorel started talking again.

“You know, it’s a shame really, because that Grantaire was pretty cool. Guy was going to teach me Single Stick, and he was going to come boxing with me.” He sighed dramatically as he hung up his coat. “He was a nice guy, I really liked him.”

“I never would have fucking guessed,” Feuilly muttered, fingers itching for another smoke. The whole evening had been a pain in the arse after the dramatic reveal – and Bahorel definitely had a point because their friendship group needed therapy, with all that drama. And what on earth had possessed Courfeyrac to open his mouth like that; Grantaire had actually gone green, Enjolras matching him in scarlet red.

“What’s your deal?” Bahorel frowned, looking over at where Feuilly had slumped down on the sofa. “I was just saying he seemed like a decent guy after all the recent car crashes those two have lived with.”

“Like him? You were practically sitting in his lap!” Feuilly snapped, and ok, he hadn’t actually meant to say that last bit, but it was true nonetheless. It hadn’t been fun having a front row seat to Bahorel’s… _flirting_.

Bahorel just gawped at him.

“I… what?”

“I’m going to bed,” Feuilly got up and stomped off to his room before Bahorel could say another word.

As he slammed his bedroom door, he knew he was being unfair. The new guy did seem fairly easy-going, although the whole ex-boyfriend thing had rather come out of left field. And so what if Bahorel wanted to flirt a bit; that was absolutely none of Feuilly’s business.

At all.

+

Saturday morning was Feuilly’s day off. When he eventually dragged himself out of bed he found the flat empty and the shopping list missing from the fridge, so clearly Bahorel was trying to make amends by filling their somewhat barren food cupboards.

Not liking being at a loose end, Feuilly shrugged on his coat and headed out, idling in the vague direction of the bus stop. He was half way across town before he realised he was heading for Jehan’s book shop, and a cup of tea sounded just the thing, if he managed to catch his friend on his break.

“This is awfully Parisian,” Jehan drawled, lighting up his Gauloises as they took a seat outside his favourite café. Feuilly snorted, reaching out for the lighter.

“Except this is London and you’re drinking… what _are_ you drinking?” he glanced suspiciously at the clear brown liquid in Jehan’s cup.

“Pasiflora,” he retorted, rolling his eyes. “Passion flower is good for the soul.”

Feuilly decided to take Jehan’s word for that, and stuck to his good old English Breakfast Tea, ignoring Jehan’s grimace.

“So is it back to the drawing board for you two, then?” Feuilly asked, tapping ash into the tray and taking a deep drag on his smoke. Jehan smiled softly.

“No, actually. Grantaire has decided to stay.”

Feuilly allowed the surprise to colour his expression. He was sure the guy would have had his bags packed before Courfeyrac got home last night.

“Oh it’s a complete mess, there’s no doubt about it,” Jehan sipped his tea, frowning slightly. “But we had a chat about it this morning, and he said he wanted to stay.”

Feuilly nodded, not quite sure what to say. He supposed it was a good thing; that his two friends had finally found someone to help with the rent.

“Between you and me, I think he was just as anxious for this to work as we were. After all, coming back here after such a long time…” Jehan suddenly stopped, mouth closing with a pop and eyes widening a little. Feuilly wondered what he had been about to say.

“Has he been away then?” Feuilly pressed, not exactly curious, but Jehan had such a very interesting look on his face that Feuilly couldn’t help but poke at him.

“Well,” Jehan flushed. “He hinted that he’d been out of the country. Studying I think.” He coughed. Feuilly narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t a complete lie; maybe half a lie – enough of a lie for Jehan’s ears to be bright red. Feuilly decided to let him off the hook; enough secrets had been blurted in the last twenty-four hours.

“Yeah, and finding somewhere to live without references can be a right pain,” he sympathised, sitting back in his seat. Jehan nodded in agreement. 

The silence between them was easy. Jehan sipped his tea and stared dreamily up at the bleak grey sky, while Feuilly lit another cigarette from the dying embers of his first. 

“Are you ok, darling?” Jehan was looking at Feuilly, head slightly on one side, pensive and considering. 

No, he wasn’t. He was feeling all sorts of wrong, all discombobulated and out of sorts.

“I’m fine,” he lied, because he really didn’t feel like going into it right now. He just kept thinking about the shocked look on Bahorel’s face last night before Feuilly had walked away. Jehan pursed his lips but didn’t push. He was good like that, and Feuilly appreciated it.

“Ugh, I have to go back to work,” Jehan frowned, as though time was a deliberate construct to rob him from his friends. He bestowed Feuilly with a smoky kiss, before talking his leave.

“Don’t be a stranger, darling,” he smiled as he walked back towards his shop. 

When Feuilly got home, Bahorel was in the kitchen making one of his mother’s casseroles, and Feuilly felt a stab of guilt for the way he’d snapped at him the night before. 

“Did you want to go see a movie, or something?” Bahorel chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Just the two of us?”

Feuilly gave him a smile, it was the least he deserved.

“Yeah, that sounds nice. Buy popcorn, and I’ll let you choose.”

Bahorel’s answering smile was so dazzling it almost hurt.

+

Feuilly was angled over the sink in the kitchen with a pair of tweezers when he heard the front door bang and Bahorel’s yelled greeting. 

“I’m in the kitchen!” he yelled out, slowly prising yet another splinter from his palm, hissing his way through of it. It was the last of the medium-sized ones, leaving just three more large bastards, and four tiny ones in his hand. Who would have thought five seconds of carelessly picking up a stray branch could end this way. 

It had been right at the end of the day, and he hadn’t even thought about it, his gloves jammed in his back pocket, and he’d been so pissed off with himself he’d deliberately sat in discomfort on the Tube all the way home, preferring the privacy of his own flat for the slow and agonising removal of each bloody splinter.

Peripherally he was aware of Bahorel talking to him; from the sounds of it, Bahorel was on the couch, probably kicking off his shoes and leaving them in the middle of the floor for Feuilly to fall over. 

“I’m not kidding you, I have never tasted anything so amazing,” Bahorel’s voice filtered through the kitchen door. Feuilly hummed, extracting one of the smaller ones from just below his index finger. 

“It was like, creamy and had this… zing. Seriously, I am going to mug Courf for his lunch tomorrow.”

“Is that right,” Feuilly intoned, still not really paying attention.

“Apparently it’s a recipe he picked up while out in the Eastern Bloc” Bahorel appeared in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the door jamb. Feuilly grunted, half in acknowledgement and half in pain.

“I didn’t know Courf had ever been to the Eastern Bloc,” With a gasp, he removed another splinter from the skin under his thumb.

“No, not Courf.” And Bahorel was suddenly right behind Feuilly, making him jump slightly. “Grantaire”

_Right, of course_. 

“I’ll have to see if I can get the recipe. I think it might be Polish,” Bahorel continued, peering over Feuilly’s shoulder to see what he was doing.

“My dad was Polish” Feuilly muttered distractedly. “At least, I think he was. Maybe half.”

That was the thing though, in the orphanage. Sometimes you made stuff up to make yourself more interesting. Some of the lies were obvious lies. Some of them were told so often they became the only truth the boys knew. Anything to stand out from the grey uniformity.

Bahorel wasn’t talking now, and Feuilly glanced over his shoulder to find the guy looking at him with a strange expression, and Feuilly suddenly felt awkward under the heat of such a gaze.

“What are you doing, anyway?” Bahorel broke the silence, looking down at Feuilly’s hands.

“I’m entertaining her majesty the queen and six other lesser royals to afternoon tea, what the fuck does it look like?!” Feuilly shot back, no heat to it at all. Bahorel tutted, seizing Feuilly’s hand and bringing it up for closer inspection. 

“Fuck’s sake, do you actually own gloves?! And tell me you disinfected those…” he glanced suspiciously at the tweezers now resting in the bottom of the sink. Feuilly huffed, because he wasn’t completely hopeless, indicating with his spare hand the cooling mug of boiling water and salt solution on the side. 

Bahorel picked up the tweezers, dunked them in the mug and then gently prodded at the last large remaining splinter, the one Feuilly had been leaving well alone because it stung every time he flexed his fingers. Slowly, ever so slowly, Bahorel coaxed it out of his hand. Feuilly felt extremely hot under the back of his neck, keeping his focus on his hand, not daring to look up at Bahorel’s face.

“Right,” Bahorel cleared his throat. “Do we have any antiseptic in this place?” He stepped back, releasing Feuilly’s hand which felt like it was on fire. 

“Uh, I think there’s some in my room,” and he hopped right out of the kitchen to the safety of his bedroom, running away from Bahorel before he did something stupid like kiss his flatmate right there in the kitchen.

+

Feuilly was halfway through his first tour of Highgate Cemetery when it finally slotted into place; and that was even more frustrating because there was nothing he could do about it, knee deep in the north London wilderness.

The clearing of the West Cemetery had been going on since the 1970s, and Feuilly had been approached by the Friends of Highgate Cemetery, with the agreement of English Heritage, to continue progress, so that more of the monuments that had been damaged over the years could be preserved and restored. It was an interesting, if slightly daunting project, and they needed all the help they could get. 

Feuilly was happy to volunteer his services, and so he was taken on a tour of the site, such as it was. All his artistic neurons were firing at the beauty and solitude of the place; how nature had so successfully reclaimed what was hers, swallowing the stone sepulchres and monuments as though they were her own children. These men and women who had once lived and loved, and presumably had been mourned, now lay forgotten and abandoned, in the middle of a city, no less. And suddenly, there it was; what had been bothering him for the past few weeks, and he was certain he was right.

But he had to wait until he got home; had to wait until the end of the day, until he got to his Tube stop, and the short jog back to the flat where he instantly started riffling through his shelves.

“Everything ok?” Bahorel appeared in his doorway, a tea towel thrown casually over his shoulder.

“Yeah, I just… thought of something at work,” Feuilly muttered in answer, not looking up. He was certain he was right, and if he was, that made Enjolras’s behaviour even more…

“Ok, well, dinner is ready when you are,” Bahorel seemed to know he wouldn’t be getting much sense out of him until he’d scratched whatever itch was bothering him.

How many times had he seen that drawing in Enjolras’s apartment? Even after going to that Leeds exhibit, he’d only ever thought in passing that Enjolras must have sold his soul to be in possession of a genuine R, without actually thinking too hard about the realities of that. 

And what was it Bahorel had said about Grantaire travelling to the Eastern Bloc? Even Jehan had muttered something about the guy being overseas for the past couple of years.

Ultimately, the books weren’t all that helpful. There weren’t any photographs of the artist in any of the books or programmes he had picked up since first being exposed to R’s work, by Enjolras of all people. R was deliberately a mysterious figure, working hard to keep his identity secret, helped by the incalculable power of the JVJ empire.

But as he flicked through his postcard collection, his eye was drawn to the figure in red who appeared in every item of R’s work. Feuilly frowned, rubbing his neck absently. 

It had to be Enjolras. It wasn’t unreasonable to assume that it _was_ Enjolras, in the corner of every eye, always just out of reach; a calling card even more telling than the rebus in the corner of each piece. It was yet another compelling argument for R being the upcoming photographer living in Jehan and Courf’s spare room.

A quick Google after dinner didn’t do much for confirming or dispelling his suspicions; the rumours about R were far-reaching and got weirder the deeper into the net you went. But others had noted the presence of the figure in red – the Blond Boy in the painting, as they called him - and those theories were even wilder. It was giddying to think that the truth worked in an inoffensive law firm just across town.

Feuilly widened his search, looking up photos of gallery launches and JVJ events. Usually these proved fruitless, but for every nine unhelpful pictures, there was one which, with the aid of the zoom function, revealed a shadowy yet vaguely familiar figure that one could reasonably argue was the same person, and they were never named in the caption. 

Feuilly sat back, rubbing his jaw. Looking up at the clock, he could hardly believe that it was nearly half eleven at night, the rest of the flat shrouded in darkness as Bahorel had probably gone to bed an hour ago.

Grantaire was R. Probably. At least, Feuilly was as sure as he could be without actually asking the guy. And Jehan probably knew it, too. 

Well, that was an interesting discovery.

+

Feuilly wasn’t normally one to revel in victory, but damn it was good to be proved right. And there was something thrilling about being privy to one of the best kept secrets on the art circuit. And yeah, beating him at pool was just an added bonus. 

Watching the exchange between Enjolras and Grantaire had been like watching tennis. Enjolras seemed to feel that saying anything was better than saying nothing at all, which was an interesting strategy, and Grantaire didn’t appear to be in any way discouraging him. 

The offer to do some work for R’s studio, well; he wasn’t sure if the guy was being serious, but they exchanged numbers anyway, and there had been a thoroughly pleasant conversation about Grantaire’s time abroad. 

It was nice; everyone was chatting and having a good time and it just felt… good. For a whole hour it was drama free. It was a shame to leave so early but everyone needed an early night. As they made their way back to the Tube, Bahorel grinned over to him, and Feuilly grinned back. Bahorel knocked his shoulder, and he knocked into him in return. 

They ended up racing each other back to the flat, fighting their way through the front door and collapsing onto the couch in a laughing heap. As Feuilly looked at Bahorel, panting and laughing and eyes bright as stars, he felt happier than he had done in months.

+

“How come you never bring me lunch?”

It was Sunday evening and Bahorel was in the living room ironing his shirts while watching Antiques Roadshow. It was something of a tradition and the air was heavy with steam and the scent of clean cotton. Feuilly was sketching idly, tracing the lines of the laundry basket, the legs of the ironing board, and the shirts hung up on the picture rail. He hummed vaguely, blinking up from his drawing.

“What?”

Bahorel shook out his pink and white striped shirt with the blue collar and hung it with the rest before extracting the multi-coloured striped shirt from the basket and laying it out to iron the collar and cuffs.

“Grantaire comes in with Courf’s lunch a couple of times a week.” 

Feuilly snorted derisively, turning back to his sketching. 

“That’s because Courf would leave his brain on the bus if it wasn’t actually confined between his ears.”

Which was only half true. But it was easier to be more relaxed about remembering things like lunch when there was someone at home with flexible working hours who was under the spell of Jehan’s puppy-dog eyes. Plus, Feuilly suspected it was all something of a Reasonable Excuse for accidentally bumping into certain tall blonds of their acquaintance.

Last weekend they had been introduced to Cosette, Grantaire’s boss, keeper and chief arse-kicker extraordinaire, and the group had adopted her as one of their own. It had been their first glimpse at Grantaire’s professional persona, and it had been entirely satisfying to see Enjolras’s face. The pigtail-pulling going on between those two was, quite frankly, ridiculous, even by the standards of their friendship unit. 

Cosette was headed back to the States next week, and there were murmurings of having a party-movie night as a suitable send-off. Bahorel had generously volunteered the use of their flat, and there was a general understanding of bring-your-own booze.

“Who’s coming to this shindig anyway?” Feuilly chewed on the end of his pencil. “Is it plus-ones as well?”

Bahorel snorted, steaming out a particularly difficult wrinkle on his shirt.

“Be rude not to, seeing as half the group is dating itself!” he retorted, setting the shirt on another hanger and reaching for the last one in the basket.

“You know what I mean,” Feuilly grumbled, flipping his sketch book closed. Bahorel rolled his eyes.

“Oh you mean is Enjolras bringing the elusive Patrick?”

Feuilly pulled a face. Truth be told, he didn’t like the guy. Something about the few times he’d seen him in passing had set the hairs up on the back of his neck. He had a very possessive way of putting his hand on Enjolras’s shoulder and he wondered how Enjolras could stand it. But then, when he’d tried to voice that thought out loud, it occurred to him that they were all hugely tactile. They were always hanging off one another, and he and Bahorel were constantly rough-housing. Joly and Bossuet loved to hold little fingers, even when sitting down, and then there was Jehan. So really what was it about a guy touching his boyfriend that bothered Feuilly so much? 

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they got to know Enjolras’s boyfriend a little better but that was hard when he repelled every invite. And Feuilly was fairly sure that spat between Enjolras and Ferre a few months back had been Patrick related, even if neither of them ever said a word.

“Well it would be impolite not to invite him,” Bahorel mused, folding the ironing board up and setting the iron on the kitchen counter to cool down. “Not that he’ll accept or anything.”

Well, that was true enough at least.

+

When Feuilly got home he was about as wet as he could get, thanks to a day spent outside in what could only be described as a monsoon, followed by having to walk home thanks to some failure or other on the Tube causing abject misery for commuters everywhere. He could have taken a bus, but he figured he may as well walk, rather than stand at the bus stop waiting and shivering as the outcome was much the same. 

The flat was empty, even though it being well after six, which could only be to do with the Big Case that had sprung up the day before. The whole Firm was in uproar, with even Bahorel being called in to help with the paperwork, despite not yet being fully qualified. It looked like it was going to drag on for a while, and Bahorel had told Feuilly not to expect him home at any fixed time for the foreseeable future. 

It was nice having the place to himself. He took a long hot shower to wash out the cold and mud of the day, before turning his attention to the kitchen. It was pleasant to have the radio singing in the background while he chopped some onions and crushed some garlic and just threw stuff into pots; to take the time to enjoy the process of cooking. 

There was something of a lunch-off going on in Bahorel’s office since Grantaire moved in and brought with him his repertoire of eastern European cooking, not to mention his jambalayas and stews. Well, two could play at that game. Bahorel’s mother had some fantastic recipes that both he and Feuilly had managed to pilfer over the years, not to mention their attempts to make some of the more outlandish 1970s recipes edible for the twenty-first century palete. 

It was also a good excuse to cook in batches so that the left overs could be frozen and taken out at leisure. Tonight, Feuilly rooted through the cupboards, pulling together the ingredients for a basic chilli. He hummed along to the radio, and didn’t immediately notice when Bahorel finally got back.

“Something smells amazing,” Bahorel leant against the doorframe, looking like an overgrown drowned rat. Feuilly tutted at him, shaking his head.

“Quit making a mess of the kitchen floor and go take a shower. You’ve got time,” he jerked his head in the direction of the bathroom, pretty much chasing his flatmate from the room. Bahorel didn’t need that much chasing, going willingly, shrugging out of his coat and suit jacket, which Feuilly helpfully took from him to hang up.

“You’re my absolute favourite, have I told you that recently?” he murmured, unknotting his tie. “Whatever would I do without you?”

“Oh you’d have starved in the streets long ago, I’m sure,” Feuilly teased, suddenly hot under the collar from the way Bahorel was looking at him. Bahorel rolled his eyes, still smiling, as he stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.

+

Bahorel was in so much trouble, and the whole situation was beginning to become untenable. 

It wasn’t as if it was anything particularly new about this situation; he and Feuilly had been complicated with a capital C for a while now, but for a while it had settled into a comfortable ache. He’d hoped that moving in with Feuilly would somehow resolve it one way or the other; that actually living with the guy might reveal some hidden bad habit or something, or else just push the issue so that they couldn’t ignore it.

The fact was, a big fat nothing had happened since they’d moved into together back in February. They went to art classes together and they cooked together and they went to the pub together. Neither of them had dated – and speaking personally, Bahorel had felt no inclination for dating, but heaven only knew what was going on in Feuilly’s head.

So he could have just taken a deep breath and made the first move except it seemed like the worst idea in the world. They had the worst timing in the world; every time they had a go at an actual relationship something came up, and besides, it wasn’t as if Feuilly had made any moves on him. Although, at the movie night a few weeks back, it had been so nice having Feuilly lying on top of him, lounging against him like a comfortable ginger cat.

It was ridiculous and Bahorel was getting to the end of his tether with it. Watching the way Grantaire looked at Enjolras (and sometimes the way Enjolras looked at Grantaire) had really rammed the point home, and he absolutely dreaded the day that Feuilly introduced him to his new girlfriend or boyfriend. 

Apparently, it was beginning to affect his concentration, because not only did Grantaire get a number of hits in during their Sunday morning boxing session, but he managed to sock him right on the jaw, sending Bahorel tumbling to the mats.

“Shit, you ok?” Grantaire offered his hand to pull him up which he accepted gratefully.

“Yeah, sorry. Guess my head isn’t in the game.” He grinned ruefully, rubbing at his jaw where Grantaire had caught him. It wouldn’t bruise up, just sting for a while but _ouch_. Grantaire chuckled.

“Yeah, Courf’s the same at the moment; head full of work. Jehan found him sleeping on his case notes this morning.” Grantaire took a swig of water from his bottle before offering it to Bahorel who accepted it gratefully. He could have just nodded in agreement, but instead he found himself opening his mouth.

“Nah, it’s not work.”

That seemed to spark Grantaire’s interest. He grabbed his towel to mop his face before sitting down on one of the benches, cocking his head to one side in curiosity. _Damn, why had Bahorel gone an opened his big mouth?_

He hummed for a second, taking another glug of water to delay, and try to work out exactly what he wanted to say. In the end he shrugged his shoulders and decided _what the hell_.

“So, I, uh, like this guy,” he started, cringing at his own ineloquence. Jeez, how old was he?! Twenty-two going on twelve.

For a moment, Grantaire looked blank, and then vaguely horrified. It took Bahorel a while for his brain to catch up with what he’d just said and how that might be interpreted.

“No, not you!” he exclaimed, throwing his towel at Grantaire’s head. It broke the atmosphere and they both started laughing.

“Good because… you’re not really my type,” Grantaire chuckled, shaking his head. _Yeah_ , Bahorel thought, _we know all about your type_. Then Grantaire was frowning again.

“But hang on, aren’t you with Feuilly? Did you guys break up or….” Grantaire filtered off as Bahorel shook his head. “Sorry, I just assumed…”

“Yeah, well. It’s not for lack of trying,” Bahorel replied, somewhat bitterly. “There have been a few times, in the past.”

_Oh, and what times, they were. Fucking glorious times_.

“It just never worked out,” Bahorel sighed, running his hand through his hair in annoyance. “Something always got in the way.”

Grantaire nodded, suddenly looking very far away in apparent understanding, and Bahorel wondered what the story was there.

“I can’t believe you’re asking me for advice, though,” Grantaire pulled a face that conveyed perfectly that he was questioning Bahorel’s life choices. “I am a literal walking disaster, especially when it comes to relationships.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, neither willing to either resume fighting, but not ready to pack up and go home either.

“I mean, sure there have been boys,” Grantaire was looking at his hands now, flexing them. “But nothing long lasting, and that’s usually down to me being a total arsehole.” He shrugged again, because it was what it was, and Bahorel could understand that. Mistakes got made, that was just part of life. 

“So,” Grantaire said bracingly before getting to his feet. “Just tell him how you feel.” 

“Just like that?” Bahorel chewed his lip, doubtfully. Grantaire snorted and grabbed some pads, heading back towards the mats.

“Hell, I don’t know! Do I strike you as someone who talks through their problems?”

Fair point.

+

He was going to do it Saturday night.

Bahorel had it all planned out. He was going to cook dinner, a special dinner. He was going to clear off the table and set it properly and buy actual wine that complimented the dish, and he might even buy one of those hideously expensive candles Feuilly occasionally got at Christmas when they were on sale. 

He practised it in his head. _Feuilly, I really like you, and I’d like to be in a serious relationship with you_. Ugh…

Feuilly was all set to go meet Jehan for lunch, which meant Bahorel had the whole afternoon to get the flat ready and sort himself out. 

Saturday morning had started perfectly with a lie-in and then a run round the park. He was just tucking in to a late brunch when all his plans went out the window. Apparently the fates really hated him, or else really enjoyed fucking with him. Feuilly was sitting peacefully on the couch, nose in a book, not due to leave for a couple of hours yet, when his phone started ringing. He got as far as “hello” before a voice on the other end started babbling at him at full speed.

Bahorel looked up, raising an eyebrow in Feuilly’s direction. Except that Feuilly had gone a funny colour.

“Fucking WHAT?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY WERE SO CLOSE!!! It's like that bit in the little mermaid when the eels knock the boat over.... SO CLOSE.
> 
> The chapter title comes from the Beatles "The Long And Winding Road" for fairly obvious reasons.  
> We're nearly there, I can't believe it...
> 
> Thank you to ALL OF YOU for all your love and comments and kudos - and to Claire and Sarah for putting up with my complete narcissism, and slight obsession with these two.


	25. Though Your Dreams Be Tossed and Blown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well of course Bahorel wasn’t going to let Feuilly go across London all by himself, not after a phone call like that."
> 
> All the Amis rally around in the wake of Patrick's attack on Enjolras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hullo hullo 
> 
> Okies so, usual warning for angst (and Claire particularly wanted me to tag for Patrick soooo)  
> If anyone else would like anything tagged please let me know,

Well of course Bahorel wasn’t going to let Feuilly go across London all by himself, not after a phone call like that.

He hadn’t been able to get much from the guy as Feuilly had gone terrifyingly silent, face fixed and determined, mind already across town with their friends. But the long and short of it was that Enjolras had been attacked by Patrick last night. Bahorel could feel the anger rolling off Feuilly in waves, just by the set of his shoulders and the stomp of his feet. 

Fuck.

Not Enjolras. Just… fuck.

People joked about Enjolras being their leader, but in a funny sort of way it was true. Bahorel hadn’t needed to live with the guy to realise just how pivotal he was in their friendship group. He was loved and respected by all of them for his passion and sense of right. Bahorel’s hands shook a little has he extracted two cigarettes from the packet while they jogged up the Tube station stairs back to daylight. He lit them as soon as they were on street level, passing one automatically over to Feuilly.

He was sure his best friend was thinking the same thing as him; just how badly injured was Enjolras and would anybody notice if the scumbag who’d done it mysteriously disappeared into the boot of a car and was never seen again…

“Hey,” Bahorel broke the silence, slowing down a little, before reaching out to catch Feuilly’s arm when the guy didn’t respond. Feuilly took a moment before looking up, whole body taut like a spring from the stress of the situation, and Bahorel couldn’t help but just pull him in and grip him tight. He sighed, feeling Feuilly relax as they hugged it out in the middle of a London street.

“We’ll deal with it. You know we will,” Bahorel spoke gruffly into Feuilly’s shoulder, feeling him harrumph in response, before pulling back and running a hand through his rusty red hair.

“Yeah, I know,” he returned, the first words spoken since he’d slammed the front door shut.

Technically, Jehan wasn’t due a break for another hour, but the other girl in the store seemed only too glad to push him out the door when Bahorel and Feuilly arrived. Apparently he’d managed to price all the encyclopaedias at 99p and had stacked a whole load of Bill Bryson books in the sci-fi section. Bahorel left them at a table outside the café, smoking and shell shocked, while he went to get some coffees and a tea, and then some bacon sandwiches because he _really_ needed the carbs.

“Grantaire cleaned him up,” Jehan was saying when Bahorel returned. “There’s nothing physically broken.” He tapped his ash into the tray before taking another drag. “I just can’t believe it happened.”

Poor Jehan looked bone tired, as though he hadn’t slept in a week. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his usually bright and expressive face was drawn tight. Feuilly gripped his hand tightly, but stayed silent.

It must have been horrible, Bahorel thought, to have one of your best friends turn up on your doorstep in such a state. As Jehan brought them both up to speed on the finer details, Bahorel wondered what he would have done if he’d been there. 

“I don’t think he’d be up to visitors right now,” Jehan frowned down at his cooling tea, lighting another smoke with the remnants of the last one. “He was pretty upset, and you know… well… you know Enjolras.”

Bahorel huffed; he knew all right. Some stupid sense of pride, and not wanting to appear weak in front of his friends. As if they cared about that! They just wanted him to be ok. But of course, they would respect his wishes. He was safe with Jehan, Courf and R anyway. Just so long as he knew that everyone was there for him. 

They walked Jehan back to his shop, all hugging tightly before leaving him to it. There was a bit more colour to his cheeks, and for that Bahorel was grateful. What a fucking mess! Bahorel didn’t care if it cost him his job; if he ever saw that fucking shit-for-brains weasel Patrick again, he’d tear his fucking head off. 

Feuilly was still quiet, face frowning, but at least his shoulders had slumped a little. All the same, the guy was still lost in his head. Hit with sudden inspiration, and hoping that Feuilly would just go along with it, Bahorel reached out to tap his mate lightly on the arm to catch his attention.

“Come on you,” he spoke softly but firmly, holding out his hand. Feuilly eyed him suspiciously. “We can either go home and sulk around the apartment, or you can trust me.”

_Come on, take a chance…_

Bahorel caught the exact moment that Feuilly just gave in and decided to indulge whatever weird scheme Bahorel had come up with this time. He took Bahorel’s hand and allowed himself to be dragged down the street. He stopped by one of the tourist bus stops and pulled out his wallet while Feuilly eyed him with amusement. Then there was a race for the top deck, with a lot of pushing and shoving to get to the front, and to Bahorel’s delight Feuilly was laughing when they slumped down in their seats.

“What the hell made you think of this?” Feuilly grinned over to him, and something stuttered in Bahorel’s chest.

“I don’t know about you, but I’ve lived in this city for five years, and most of that time I’ve either been in the bar, in the classroom or on the Tube. Feuilly shrugged, conceding the point.

It was late November now, so they were alone on the open-deck bus as it slowly moved off into the busy London streets. Bahorel was right, they so rarely got to do touristy things like go down the Thames on a boat, or the London Eye, or even see the changing of the guard; not that Feuilly was particularly fussed about that.

The cold air was rather welcome to try to clear his brain which felt as though it was on fire. It had almost been too much, listening to Jehan trying not to cry down the phone as he made his way to work. Feuilly felt angry and guilty, as though he should have known something wasn’t quite right. They’d been trying to be respectful and give Enjolras his space, but had they backed off too much? Talking to Jehan had made him feel a little better, but he was so damn grateful to have Bahorel with him. And Enjolras would be fine; he had Courf and Jehan, and it sounded like Grantaire had done a great job helping the night before. And Feuilly would put money on it that Combeferre would be there in a flash. But none of that changed the fact that Feuilly was practically vibrating out of his skin.

London in winter was actually quite pretty. The lights were already up even though it wasn’t December for another week. They were given headsets to listen to as they slowly made their way round the old city, but Feuilly was only half paying attention, preferring to sit quietly and look, pressed into the warmth of Bahorel’s side. Oxford and Regent Street were packed as usual, people pouring in and out of the shops. Usually, if Feuilly found himself on a bus it was because the Tube was broken so he was hunched in a corner, or standing, earphones on full blast and just praying to get home. There was something nice about not being in a rush and just watching the world go by. The tree was up in Trafalgar Square, same as every year, towering over the crowds beneath. Then it was down Whitehall towards Horseguards and Westminster Bridge. St Paul’s was pretty impressive, even with Bahorel warbling a terrible version of “Feed the Birds” in his ear.

At the Tower of London they decided to get out and take a walk while it was still light, walking along the riverbank in the shadow of a building that had stood for nearly a thousand years. The sun was setting, creating a riot of colours across the ripples of the river. Feuilly wanted to capture the moment and fold it up safe in his pocket.

And if Bahorel wasn’t going to make a big deal of holding Feuilly’s hand as they strolled beside the river, then Feuilly certainly wasn’t going to say anything. 

+

They ended up getting take away, and damn it was just so good to slump on the sofa, with chow mein, a crappy movie and, rather bizarrely, a bottle of red wine that Bahorel produced with a shrug of his shoulders. 

“I’ve got gym with Grantaire tomorrow anyway,” Bahorel topped up their drinks, and yeah maybe wine from pint glasses wasn’t the classiest thing Feuilly had ever done, but fuck it, it had been a bit of a day and he doubted the wine cared either way. Feuilly hummed around a mouthful of crispy seaweed.

“So I’ll be able to get an update then.”

Bahorel had been in touch with Courf to see how things were going, and it seemed as though all was quiet and peaceful after the shocking events of the night before. Enjolras had slept for most the day, which was to be expected and, as predicted, Combeferre had turned up at the earliest respectable hour. From the sounds of things, everything was under control, with Grantaire in the kitchen cooking up what Courf described as “yet another masterpiece”. 

Feuilly set his plate on the floor and settled back, resting against Bahorel who didn’t even put up even a token protest. He didn’t doubt for a moment that it was going to be crap for a couple of days, especially once the dust settled and they all tried to get to grips with what had happened; how best to move forward and what to do next, and how best to support their friend. But at least they all had each other.

+

“You don’t mind do you?”

Bahorel had been half asleep when he heard his bedroom door creak, followed by the sensation of the mattress dipping as Feuilly slipped in beside him.

He wasn’t all that surprised. It had been a total fuck up of a day, and it was nice to roll over and throw an arm around familiar shoulders. 

“Shut up and go to sleep,” Bahorel replied, settling down and feeling comfortable and warm with Feuilly in his arms.

+

Feuilly was alone when he eventually woke up on Sunday morning, stretched out and warm in Bahorel’s bed. Shockingly it was almost midday, which was late for him even for a Sunday lie-in. Feuilly was reluctant to leave the sanctuary of Bahorel’s duvet, but there was stuff to do, chores to be done, especially as Saturday had been something of a write-off.

On the counter in the kitchen Bahorel, the great nerd, had left a hastily scribbled note before heading out for the gym. He apologised for not making coffee, followed by an arrow pointing to Feuilly’s favourite mug along with a layer of coffee granules resting in the bottom. Feuilly grinned to himself, shaking his head as he clicked the kettle on. He switched on the little radio on the windowsill, some pop song filling the air.

The day stretched ahead of him as Feuilly sat cross-legged on the sofa with a bowl of rice krispies, ignoring the serious BBC One Sunday morning programme in favour of cartoons. The washing machine was already rumbling away to itself, and Feuilly was considering going for a run, when the angry buzz of his phone, still on the bedside table in his bedroom, caught his attention. Picking up the phone, he saw it was Jehan calling.

“Halloo!” he called cheerfully, mouth full of cereal, as he answered Jehan’s call.

There was a pause, just long enough for Feuilly to get worried, checking the phone screen to make sure the call was still connected. Then Courf’s voice filtered down the line.

“Hey dude, didn’t wake you did we?” Courf sounded exhausted, and Feuilly rushed to reassure him.

“Nope, just having a late breakfast while Bahorel is in the gym. What’s up?”

There was another heavy sigh from the other end of the phone, and Feuilly felt his guts knot in anticipation.

“There was a bit of a… bust up this morning, between Enjolras and R.” Feuilly could imagine Courf rubbing his eyes. In the background, he could vaguely hear Jehan sniff and then mutter something.

“What happened, is everyone ok?”

“I’m about done with the pair of them, to be honest,” Courf replied, and Feuilly didn’t doubt it. “We left them alone together for five minutes, and when we got back all hell had broken loose. Enjolras went storming off and now Grantaire has buggered off to the gym and I don’t know what to do.”

Feuilly sighed. So much for a quiet Sunday…

“Give me ten to hop in the shower and then I’ll head over to yours.” Feuilly stretched and rolled his shoulders.

“Well Joly and Bossuet are meeting us at the corner by the park,” Courf interjected. “Ferre suggested he might have gone there to walk it off, and he’s going to Enj’s place in case he goes there.”

Feuilly hummed; it sounded like a reasonable plan. He agreed to meet at the corner and then hung up. Before he left the flat he tried Bahorel’s phone a few times but to no avail, and Feuilly could just imagine the phone singing away to itself in a gym locker. He sent a quick text, asking him to call as soon as he could.

Not that he was quite sure what practical use he could be, but at the very least he could knock a few heads together. 

+

Ok, so things were a lot worse than previously thought.

It wasn’t just a case of emotions running high and the inevitable explosion between two humans who had nearly of decade of bullshit to work through. Enjolras had completely vanished off the face of the planet. Courf had tried to follow him out of the flat, but by the time he’d hit the street, Enjolras had been swallowed up by the city, and even though Courf ran to the end of the road, his friend was nowhere in sight. This was especially worrying as the guy didn’t have anything other than the borrowed clothes he was standing up in.

Feuilly was one of the last to arrive at the corner. Bossuet waved to him, always cheerful, and Feuilly jogged the last bit to catch up to them. There was a quick round of hugs, Joly patting his back firmly, Marius shaking his hand and Jehan doing his usual koala impression. 

There wasn’t any particular reason for alarm at this point, but Feuilly could understand everyone’s concern. The guy had been through a lot, and walking off on his own without money or anything else was a terrible idea. Everyone would feel a lot happier once he was back safe and sound.

They decided to split up into two groups and did a quick circuit of the park; Jehan, Courf and Feuilly going in one direction, and Joly, Bossuet and Marius going in the other. They were half way round when Bahorel finally made contact.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Feuilly practically yelled down the phone in lieu of a greeting. 

“I’ve been in the gym,” Bahorel spluttered, caught by surprise at Feuilly’s tone. Of course he had. All this bedlam had broken out, and Bahorel didn’t know about any of it.

“Is R still with you?” There was a confused pause from the other end of the phone.

“No, we didn’t spar in the end. Guy was in a pretty poor state, so we had a chat and he went home. He should be back by now, though. I stuck around once he left, just to do a quick work out.”

Feuilly relayed this info to Jehan and Courf who merely shrugged because when they’d left the apartment it had been empty. Of course, R could be back there right now, feet up and watching TV.

“Mate, what’s going on, you’re kind of freaking me out here,” Bahorel huffed down the phone. Feuilly scratched the back of his neck in consideration.

“Ok, can you head to my old place? I’ll fill you in once you get here.” Bahorel didn’t sound too impressed with that answer, but he agreed, and yeah he was probably going to be imagining all sorts on the Tube over, but Feuilly felt they should probably head back and soon. Enjolras was clearly not in the park.

+

The nail in the coffin was the call from Combeferre. 

Grantaire wasn’t in the flat, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Bossuet and Marius were just handing round mugs of tea and coffee when Courf got the call.

It was the worst possible news. Combeferre, not getting a response to his knocks, had used his spare key to let himself in and had discovered a horrendous scene. Enjolras’s flat, usually so tidy, was in complete disarray. 

Courf wanted to call the police, but there was no evidence of a break in, and Combeferre already had an idea of who was responsible. Given that the original row that had triggered Enjolras’s disappearance had been about going to the police about Patrick, he was unwilling to do anything behind Enjolras’s back.

Feuilly was already heading back out the door, wanting to go over there, even if there was nothing really to be done. There was a volley of voices, everyone speaking at once, and it took a while for Joly to call everyone to some semblance of order.

They couldn’t all go piling over to Enjolras’s place. If Enjolras did show up, he would freak out if he found all of his friends sitting there waiting for him. At the same time, someone should stay in the flat as a base of operations, for if and when either Enjolras or Grantaire turned up.

Once they had sorted themselves out, Feuilly set off with Jehan in tow, grousing about how much abuse his oyster card was getting.

“You know the pair of them are going to turn up right as rain, and when they do I’m going to break both their necks,” Feuilly quipped, flopping down on his seat as the train moved off. Jehan’s mouth was drawn into a flat line, not quite in the mood to laugh, and Feuilly just wanted to hug it all away.

Mercifully it wasn’t too far to Enjolras’s place, and it was strange going there because he’d been there so often over the years, especially when Bahorel had been in residence, but this was different. He was running on pure adrenaline, and Feuilly half expected to collide with Enjolras on the stairs. 

Combeferre let them in, face drawn with concern, and yeah, “trashed” was definitely the way to describe the place. It was worse than Jehan’s room when he’d lived back in halls, and Feuilly couldn’t help but let out a low whistle.

First thing was first; Feuilly rang one of his mates because those locks needed changing _now_. Even if Enjolras did pitch up and find Combeferre and Feuilly changing his locks, Feuilly could always apologise for the presumption and he was fairly certain Enjolras would forgive him eventually. Jehan was kneeling beside an empty bookcase, trying to arrange the scattered books into neat piles.

“What did people do before the advent of mobile phones,” Combeferre muttered, frustrated by the whole situation. He was trying to clear the worst of the mess, though it was hard to know where to start. Feuilly huffed, because it was all very well and good being dramatic and storming off as long as you could assure people via the wonders of modern technology that you hadn’t been bumped off by your freaky ex-boyfriend.

Yeah, he’d be keeping that thought to himself.

But Enjolras didn’t show up, and when Feuilly’s mate was done and the new locks were in place, they left a note on the door asking Enjolras to contact them. Combeferre had the idea of leaving one of the new keys with the caretaker, before heading back to the old flat.

It was stressful, waiting for news, for anything. Eponine got in touch which did nothing to settle anyone’s nerves because R had rung her to “clear his schedule” and then the bastard had turned his phone off. And now it was getting dark and nearly everyone was back at Courf and Jehan’s. Combeferre had joined Bahorel in going round likely places Enjolras might have gone; libraries, museums, galleries. No one had seen or remembered seeing Enjolras, and Joly had contacts in A&E promising to ring him if anyone matching Enjolras’s description was brought in.

“Well I don’t care what you say, if it gets to 9pm, I’m calling the police,” Courf snapped to thin air, clearly having a conversation in his head and cracking under the pressure. Feuilly agreed with him completely. It was one thing to have a row and need some space, but why on earth hadn’t Enjolras been in touch? And he was going to rip Grantaire a new one for freaking everyone out with this “turning my phone off” nonsense.

Eponine turned up just after 8pm, wringing her hands and apologising but she was just too wired to do anything else. She was welcomed with open arms, handed a drink and space was made on the sofa. Despite there being seven people crammed into the apartment it was strangely silent, conversation having dried up long ago. 

Feuilly was just considering how heartless he would appear if he suggested ordering six large pizzas to feed the few million people currently occupying the living room when Eponine’s phone burst into song.

“YOU COMPLETE FUCKING BASTARD!”

Ah, that would be Grantaire then. And dammit, Feuilly couldn’t help but smile with relief as all hell broke loose around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey look at me being all adult and updating this before another year has passed.
> 
> The chapter title is taken from You'll Never Walk Alone from Carousel. 
> 
> We're nearly there, folks! To everyone still with me, thank you so much :)


	26. I've Loved, I've Laughed and Cried, I've Had My Fill, My Share of Losing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All things considered, it had been a hell of a week._
> 
> Enjolras and Grantaire have been found safe and sound. But Bahorel has been acting really strangely and it's starting to get on Feuilly's nerves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello loyal followers - It may have taken two years and eight months, but I have finished this fic. We have reached the end of the road for Bahorel and Feuilly.
> 
> I want to thank you for all your patience - your comments and kudos. They've really kept me going. I hope you enjoy.

All things considered, it had been a hell of a week.

The main thing was, Enjolras was safe; and thank fuck for that. For reasons that still weren’t completely clear to Bahorel, Enjolras had driven up to Yorkshire to visit Grantaire’s grandparents. Not the most obvious place; even Combeferre hadn’t thought of that one. 

What followed was enough beer and pizza to feed an army, and plenty of ranting as everyone came down off the ceiling, and the panic of the past few hours subsided. There were various threats of broken limbs and imminent death on the two guys hiding out in Yorkshire. And Bahorel owed R a dead arm the next time he saw him; the second he had walked through the door, Feuilly had pounced on him, punching him hard. 

“Just when were you going to mention you knew where R was?!” Feuilly’s face had been lined with the stress of the day.

Bahorel had thought everyone had known and had said so, looking over to Eponine for a bit of back up. But there was no help from that quarter, the little traitor holding up her hands in clear indication that she didn’t want to get involved.

Feuilly had rolled his eyes, muttering darkly, but thankfully he was either too tired or too relieved to make it into much of a thing.

Getting up for work the next day had been absolutely dire, almost as though Friday had just rolled straight into Monday without a break in between. Feuilly had slept in Bahorel’s bed again, the pair of them mentally and physically exhausted from two days of stress. When the alarm had blared, it had taken every ounce of effort for Bahorel to drag himself from the far more welcoming warmth of his bed.

Courf looked completely wrecked when he met him at the door of the office. Bahorel was pleased to hear that Enjolras had made contact that morning, agreeing to move in on a semi-permanent basis. More encouragingly, it sounded as though another blazing row between Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum was unlikely, at least for now, which was a relief to hear. The pair of them needed their heads bashing together.

Reality smacked them all in the face pretty hard as they got on with some work. The Big Case was still ongoing, noses firmly to the grindstone now that they were short-staffed. Lunchtime arrived before anyone knew it, not that anyone was actually taking their lunch break. Bahorel did a run to the deli down the street for everyone, coming back armed with baguettes and crisps and bananas. There were groans of delight as he delivered his goods, Courf pouncing on his chicken sandwich as though Bahorel hadn’t seen him demolish a Pepperoni pizza all by himself the night before. 

Bahorel had just sat back down again, sighing in despair at the sheer amount of paper on his desk, when raised voices from the front desk caught his attention.

“For the final time, he’s not here, and I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Toby’s voice filtered loud and clear from where he manned reception. Bahorel glanced over to Courf, raising his eyebrows; it wasn’t like Toby to raise his voice. 

“If you’re asking me to believe that Enjolras has not come to work, when everyone knows he’s practically married to his job…” a second voice broke in, louder than Toby, and all the hairs went up on the back of Bahorel’s neck.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Courf half snarled, pushing back from his desk, and Bahorel stood too, though whether it was to hold Courf back, or try to beat him to the first punch.

It was Patrick all right, the fucking dickhead, and Bahorel could feel a red mist descending. But before either he or Courf got there, Marius suddenly appeared, stalking towards the reception area with his head held high.

“Now you listen to me,” Marius’s voice was only just under control, and it was impossible to miss the undercurrent of pure rage. “You’ve been asked to leave, and I suggest you get out before we call the nice security guards you walked past on your way up here.”

Patrick looked Marius up and down, sizing him up properly, and Bahorel was about two seconds away from vaulting the desk and sending the arsehole into orbit.

“As I was just saying to this guy here…” Patrick sneered, and Toby made a choking noise of outrage, but Marius cut both of them off.

“Because under article 9b section three of the Criminal Law Act of 1992, you are breaking several statutes by continuing to be here, and with all these witnesses, not to mention HD CCTV, we will be certain of a conviction, so unless you want to get yourself arrested I suggest you leave here and not come back.”

Patrick narrowed his eyes, pausing at the mention of police, and Bahorel could almost see the cogs in that lizard brain going round. His eyes flickered over to Courf, then up to Bahorel who was just itching to get his hands round that guy’s throat. Or maybe he should just punch the shithead, see how he liked it.

Then the silence was broken by a pointed cough.

“Hello, security?” Bahorel’s boss was there, perfectly calm, talking steadily into the phone by Toby’s elbow. “There’s a gentleman up here harassing the staff and he needs to be removed at once.”

Patrick was out of the door like a shot, door banging behind him, and Bahorel felt himself relax. 

“You know there isn’t actually a Criminal Law Act of 1992,” Courf’s hands were visibly shaking as he let out a slow breath, smiling as he clapped Marius on the back.

“No kidding?” Marius returned the smile, looking just as shaken as the rest of them. “Well nobody tell that guy, for heaven’s sake.” Bahorel let out a tremulous laugh.

“You three,” and Bahorel had almost forgotten where he was. He’d just been focussing on that… that… complete twat who had the sheer gumption to show up here and try to brazen his way in. The rest of the office had sort of faded out into the background. They all turned round to face the boss who looked right back with the perfect poker face. “My office, please.”

They all exchanged a look, not quite sure how they were going to explain this one without throwing Enjolras under a bus, and they didn’t even have time to get their stories straight. Like men to the chopping block, they dutifully trooped after their boss towards their fate.

It was rather like being dragged in front of the head teacher, Bahorel feeling about nine years old, lined up with Courfeyrac and Marius, and half expecting his mother to be called. They’d managed to stumble through the severely abridged version of the past few days, the boss looking increasingly mystified and less patient as the story progressed, before he finally held up his hands, stopping Marius mid-sentence. After promises from all three of them that such a performance was unlikely to happen again (“this is an office, not a circus”) they were told to go back to their desks. 

They managed to get all the way to the end of the week with no more panicked phone calls, no trips across town, no boxes to cart up and down the stairs. Enjolras was back at work, head down and stoically pretending that the bruising to his face just wasn’t there. Bahorel had been shocked when Enjolras had stalked in on Tuesday morning, Courf following behind looking exhausted and apprehensive. He had wrongly presumed Enjolras might want to take a few days to recuperate, though on reflection, that didn’t exactly sound very Enjolras-like.

Needless to say his boss had taken one look at him before whisking Enjolras off to a meeting room. The office had been quiet and tense, Courf chewing his nails and staring down at his case notes but probably not taking anything in. It wasn’t as though one could get in trouble at work for what had happened, but the way things had been going recently, Bahorel shared Courf’s anxiety.

But after fifteen minutes, Enjolras had emerged and nothing else had been said. After that everything sort of fell back to normal. Other members of staff politely ignored Enjolras’s black eye, though Bahorel guessed there was probably a heck of a lot of gossip happening at the water cooler.

What _was_ noticeable was how much happier Enjolras was, how much brighter, even in a few days. He joined in conversation for readily, and his old smile was back. It was such a contrast to the past couple of months that Bahorel almost kicked himself for not realising sooner that things had gone so badly wrong with his friend. 

Thursday night, Bahorel got home just after 10pm after one last push on the Big Case; with any luck it would be resolving itself the following day. The TV was talking to itself, casting a blue glow around the living room and illuminating the sprawled form of Feuilly who had apparently passed out sideways on the sofa having only gotten as far as removing his left shoe. The right one was unlaced but still very much in situ, and there was an abandoned sandwich on the coffee table.

It was completely adorable; Feuilly’s mouth was slightly open in silent snore, hair sticking up where he was smushed against a cushion, arms folded around himself protectively. Bahorel stood for a moment, just observing the sleeping man and the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Bahorel was almost tempted to leave him there, he looked so peaceful. But Feuilly’s back wasn’t up to sleeping at such an angle; Bahorel might get sworn at in the first instance for not letting sleeping Feuillys lie, but his best friend would be grateful in the long run.

“Whu?” Feuilly burbled nonsensically as Bahorel shook his shoulder as softly as he could. 

“Come on, your bed needs you,” he replied, stepping back so Feuilly could stretch, popping his shoulders. Bahorel picked up the sandwich, taking a bite out of it and almost spitting it back out because who the fuck eats piccalilli?! Feuilly laughed at him, switching off the TV.

“I wanted to wait up for you, what time is it?” Feuilly yawned, casting an eye around for a clock on the wall that they just didn’t own. 

“Just gone 10pm,” he replied, calling through from the kitchen. “Everything ok?”

He pulled a glass out of the cupboard, running the cold tap before filling it and then downing it in one gulp. On the kitchen counter there were papers, envelopes hastily opened and a new letter on the fridge with a familiar heading. 

“The Royal Horticultural Society have nominated me for something,” Feuilly was wearing one of his rare genuine smiles as he joined Bahorel in the kitchen, arms wrapped round himself bashfully. “Best new upstart or something,” he was playing vague but Bahorel could tell he was pleased. 

“That’s fantastic,” Bahorel was about ready to burst. This was awesome news. “Congratulations,” he punched Feuilly in the arm, overwhelmed with pride.

“Fuck off, I haven’t won it yet!” Feuilly laughed, rubbing his arm ruefully. “Just shortlisted. The ceremony is in January.”

It had to be in the bag. They’d be fools not to give it to him. Feuilly had been working his whole life, pushing hard to get what he wanted, where he wanted. Bahorel couldn’t imagine anyone more deserving. 

Feuilly yawed, stretching his arms up theatrically before slumping against the door frame.

“I’m going to bed,” he announced. “See you there?”

He could only nod as Feuilly shuffled off in the direction of Bahorel’s bedroom.

+

Feuilly screamed.

Well of course he did; he was sitting in a pitch black room while a scary voice-over described how he was about to be made into a pie, and then there had been _something on his face_ ….

Adrenaline had kicked in and he’d let out a loud piercing scream (he couldn’t possibly argue for yelp, not when all of his friends had been sat in the same room – his only hope was that they’d never work out it was him) and he was lashing out with his hands. It took him a good few seconds to work out that it had been a kiss; someone had kissed his cheek in the dark.

His fingers closed round fabric and he pulled, and after that everything was rather a blur. A light flashed in the dark and they were all trooping out of the room rather dazed and wide-eyed, and the side of Feuilly’s face felt like it was burning where Bahorel (because of course it was Bahorel) had just kissed him, what the hell.

Bahorel had been acting strangely for a while now. He seemed to alternate between gazing off into space and running around like someone had spiked his coffee with PCP. The pub the other night had been good, like old times. The whole crowd had been out, making plans for Enjolras’s birthday, and Bahorel had foolishly challenged him to a game of pool. Feuilly demolished him with little effort, and he tried to remember the last time they’d done _this_ ; hanging out down the pub with their friends with seemingly no cares in the world.

They’d gone to the London Dungeon – Eponine’s idea – and Bahorel was like a kid on too much sugar. He’d been bumping Feuilly’s shoulder and ruffling his hair all night, and then in the hall of mirrors or whatever doom-laden place it was meant to represent, he’d snuck up behind Feuilly and actually grabbed him round the waist and spun him. Of course Feuilly had yelled out, kicking his legs and promptly charging after a giggling Bahorel as soon as he was put down.

It reminded him of a night, years before, with a bonfire and fireworks, when he’d been too broke to afford even a cup of soup, and gloved hands had held his to try to warm them up.

“You ok?” Courf brought him back out of his head to the present day. He was looking at Feuilly with concern, so he tried to pull his face together.

“Sure, just wasn’t expecting that bit at the end at all!” he exclaimed. Courf let out a shaky laugh of agreement.

“I know, right? God knows what’s coming up next.”

Feuilly could only nod in agreement, except that he wasn’t really thinking about the dungeon anymore. Not that Courf knew that.

+

Feuilly felt rather detached from everything that was going on around him. They were gathered in his old flat, and Enjolras was just being encouraged to down another shot after losing yet another round of Never Have I Ever, much to delight of all participants. 

The music was loud, but he wasn’t quite in his warm and fuzzy place where he could enjoy himself. He had a drink somewhere, forgotten on the floor probably. Jehan had snuck out onto the balcony, probably to have a quiet two minutes gossip with R, and Feuilly just wanted to go home.

Bahorel hadn’t so much as looked at him after the Sweeny Todd room. Feuilly had found himself tagging along at the back of the group, feeling more and more annoyed the louder his friends got, especially as Bahorel’s voice was the loudest of all. 

He was confused and tired and he just wanted his bed. Except he hadn’t slept in his bed all week. He wasn’t sure how, it had just become a habit to crawl in with Bahorel every night, comforting to have the warmth of another person there; to have him there.

Feeling far too lost in his own head, and confident that he wouldn’t be missed, Feuilly grabbed his coat and slipped out.

He made it all the way to the end of the street before he heard the thud of footfalls behind him. Sure enough, Bahorel was jogging down the pavement towards him.

“Hey, you ok? You just sort of left.” Bahorel caught up to him easily, and the stupid bastard wasn’t even wearing a coat, he must be freezing.

“Just as well I got a key isn’t it,” Feuilly snapped in reply, although that hadn’t exactly been what he intended to say, but seriously what the hell. It was December and Bahorel had just run down the road after him without even retrieving his jacket. 

“Geez,” Bahorel hissed, and Feuilly was half tempted to punch the soft grin off his face. “What’s got your knickers in a knot?” 

Feuilly just turned on his heel and kept walking, thrusting his hands in his pockets. Bahorel fell into step with him easily enough, and for a while they walked in silence.

“Got a smoke?” Bahorel tried, because that was their thing when walking. Bahorel would light two and pass one over, in a gesture as old as their friendship, and Feuilly just snapped, stopping so suddenly that Bahorel almost fell over him.

“What the fuck, Rel?” 

Bahorel recoiled, hands held up in mock surrender. “Hey, what did I do?”

“You know fucking well what,” and suddenly Feuilly’s throat felt raw. “What the fuck was that in the dungeon?”

Bahorel was just staring at him, and there was a crack in the façade now, and Feuilly could see it crumbling. He lowered his hands, face blank.

“Were you just fucking with me, is that it?”

God, Feuilly just wanted to shut up. But he felt like he’d been sitting on this for months, years. There had always been that voice, that tiny bit of paranoia in the back of his head, that Bahorel had never seen what they’d had between them over the years as anything more than screwing around; two friends that were bored, two buddies who fucked.

And he just couldn’t, not any more. Bahorel and he lived together now. They were adults with jobs and lives and they were not going to go round this stupid fucking dance again.

“I’m not…” Bahorel started, but Feuilly didn’t want to hear it, turning to keep walking. He heard Bahorel’s step behind him, then a hand on his shoulder, his friend asking him to stop. He whirled round, trying to throw the hand off, but Bahorel caught his wrist easily.

“Will you just listen to me,” Bahorel barked, before wincing at his volume, casting an eye round the deserted street. He let go of Feuilly’s wrist, eyes wide that he’d been holding it in the first place.

“I’m not fucking with you.”

Feuilly could only stare at him, heart thumping in his chest, wrist burning where Bahorel had held him.

“Prove it.”

It had never been like this. Bahorel smiled, eyes melting soft as he framed Feuilly’s face with his hand, before ducking his head, and Feuilly’s eyes fluttered closed just as Bahorel brushed a chaste but firm kiss to his lips. It was simple and sweet, nothing behind it that suggested anything other than the pleasure of a kiss, stolen on a city street in winter. 

When it was over, Feuilly reached up to knot his hands in Bahorel’s hair to pull him back in once more. 

+

They somehow managed to make it to the bedroom, though Feuilly wouldn’t have minded screwing on the sofa. But Bahorel seemed to be all hearts and flowers, muttering about doing things properly and even suggesting they go on a date. The talking only stopped when Feuilly found other, more fun ways to occupy Bahorel’s mouth.

After that, the only words hanging in the air were “please” and “fuck” and “more”. Bahorel took his time, the bastard, ignoring Feuilly’s begging in favour of stretching him slowly, working him open and dragging it out, til Feuilly was ready to buzz right out of his skin. Then when he finally – fucking _finally_ – pushed inside, Feuilly was lost to heat and want, and the sensation of Bahorel giving him everything he needed.

The clock read 4:18am when Bahorel shuffled over to get a glass of water. Feuilly could hear him padding around their kitchen, using the orange of the street lamp rather than switching on the harsh strip light. When he returned, Feuilly rolled into his side, Bahorel lifting his arm to accommodate him, and for a moment Feuilly allowed himself to be wrapped in the soft scent of his skin. 

“I meant it,” Bahorel’s voice was slightly rough in the dark. “No messing about this time. You, me, in a proper committed adult relationship.”

Feuilly smiled to himself, wondering which of his friends had given him that little gem, and also how long Bahorel must have been rehearsing that in his head.

“Sounds good to me,” he replied, feeling lighter than he had done in years. “Want to seal the deal – make it all official like?” 

Bahorel rolled them over so he was lying on top of him, biting down savagely at the bruise already blooming on Feuilly’s throat.

“I think consummation may have already occurred,” he growled, “but there’s no harm in making sure”

_No_ , Feuilly thought, as Bahorel kissed his way down to Feuilly’s cock, _no damn harm at all_.

+

Bahorel’s mother threw open the door and then pounced on her son, which was quite an achievement considering he was well over a foot taller than her.

“Ah there he is! My son!” she greeted, kissing his cheek effusively. “My son, the qualified solicitor at a London Law firm, oh my gosh!”

“Mum,” Bahorel muttered, blushing at his mother’s outburst. Woe to Feuilly if he ever told anyone about this. But then she caught sight of Feuilly standing just behind him and almost pushed Bahorel out of the way.

“And there’s my other son, come here, dear!” she fussed, kissing him just as hard so that Feuilly turned the same colour as his hair. “The horticulturalist for royalty!”

_I hope the neighbours are suitably impressed_ , Bahorel thought darkly as he tried to negotiate his mother into the house as swiftly as possible before the scene got any worse. 

“Actually, mum,” Bahorel interrupted, softening his voice a little because now was as good a time as any. “Could we go sit down? We’ve got some news.” Trusting brown eyes blinked up at him, still laced with pride and joy. They widened a little and she nodded enthusiastically, steering them into the living room and waving for them to sit down.

Bahorel felt vaguely sick. He’d been thinking about this for weeks, about just how he was going to come out to his mother. What the hell was he supposed to say? 

This was too big. His mother had been in his corner his whole life, supporting him and pushing him and cheerleading him through all his awkward, difficult and bad tempered years. The next thirty seconds was going to be life changing and yet he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do if… if…

He cleared his throat.

“So, um. The thing is,” he started, clutching his knees in an effort to stop drumming his fingers and jiggling his thighs. Beside him, he felt Feuilly lean into his shoulder, a silent reminder that he wasn’t alone. 

“The thing is. I’m in love. With Feuilly.” Bahorel exhaled, and it felt amazing to say it out loud. He couldn’t help but turn to grin at his boyfriend. “I am in love with Feuilly and we’re together.”

Bahorel’s mother had leant forward so far on the sofa, he was surprised she hadn’t fallen off the edge, her entire face lit up with anticipation. In the silence that followed she blinked at him.

“…and?”

Bahorel felt like he’d been punched.

“Mum, I just told you I like boys,” he shook his head in disbelief. “Isn’t that… some might say that’s enough of a revelation on its own, you want an “and” as well?”

She continued to stare at him for a few seconds more, enough time for Bahorel to worry whether she’d heard, or if she was having a stroke or hell knew what kind of reaction. But then suddenly she picked up a cushion and threw it at him violently across the room. 

“My GOD, Feuilly, how on earth do you put up with him?!” she wailed, throwing her hands into the air as though appealing to a higher power.

“He says he has big news, and then tells me what has been obvious for the past few years, ugh!” she made another noise of complete disgust, and Bahorel felt like his brain had just exploded.

But his mother was still going, gesticulating wildly about the woes of having a son that had no respect for his poor mother, getting her all excited for big news when it was nothing of the sort.

“I thought you’d finally got your head together and proposed to the poor boy, ach Feuilly!” she lamented again, leaning forward to take his hand and rub it consolingly. 

“I wish you all the patience, poor boy,” she intoned gravely, “to be stuck with such an oaf as My Son.” With that final proclamation she kissed his hand and sent one final glare at Bahorel before stalking off to the kitchen, banging the cupboard doors.

Bahorel didn’t know what to think; his ears were still ringing with his mother’s voice. She had thought he was going to propose. What the fuck?

Feuilly nudged him, and Bahorel looked up to find the ginger git smirking at him like the arsehole he was.

“I, uh, think she’s ok with it,” he shrugged, voice all casual like he hadn’t been just as worried about it. Bahorel reached down to retrieve the cushion off the floor where it had fallen after his mother had thrown it, determined to pummel his boyfriend with it until he begged for mercy.

It was going to be a good Christmas, that was for damn sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank my very own Courf, Sarah. I really could not have finished this without you x  
> Also honourable mentions with accompanying wine and cheese to Claire, because I feed off your screaming.
> 
> The title I took from My Way by Frank Sinatra (or Sid Vicious, if you find that more punk) because it has been one hell of a rollercoaster with these two. They had to do it the hard way, but they got there in the end.
> 
> Cheers guys x

**Author's Note:**

> The work's title is taken from the brick.


End file.
